


Rebirth in Winter Dreams

by boazofeirini



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Action/Adventure, Fantasy, Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2019-07-01 09:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15771078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boazofeirini/pseuds/boazofeirini
Summary: A bastard of the insignificant House Sterling awakens a forgotten magic shortly after Robert's Rebellion unused since the Age of Heroes. Deep magic lives again, subtly appearing as the dark and horrifying monsters of the world as old legends come to life, wishing to kill him during the day. At night, another monster speaks friendly in his dreams and urges to teach him. With the War of the Five King coming, a wizard will be born. For now, he's just a Snow uncertain of his lot in life.





	1. Brandon Sterling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brandon Sterling, the arguably smallest lord of the North, finds out a secret about his son.

Brandon Sterling

 

                Breaking a fast after a long night’s sleep was Brandon’s wondrous joy, besides his family and frequent night visits to his lady wife. A hearty meal for consuming meats, whether eggs, bacon, chicken or whichever the cook makes for him, with his family sitting beside him. After, his days were filled with him agonizing over their ever decreasing funds with the sole remaining silver mine left to house Sterling. His previous kin had held most of the silver mines surrounding White Harbor. However, he was meant to deal with one, and figure out how to best organize the act to regulate the silver mined, priced, and sold in contrast to the other silver mines to maintain the lifestyle of a landed noble. Although previously wealthy and lord over a few small villages, they have never been a large house, only holding a single castle with a small parcel of land north of White Harbor before the Sheepshead Hills of house Ashwood. He sought answers in the journals of the previous lords to find none usable, only useless dreams of the past. Without shrewd management, he wasn’t sure if his house could survive another generation or two. Yet the worries were swallowed with the savory flavor of morning pork sausage.

                Barbara of house Ashwood, his lady wife kind enough to adopt his family name, had an endearing but broken a smile. She had a faded, dark brown hair with soft, cinnamon eyes while short in stature.  He knew she saw his worries spilling into habits and loved her for it. She had always loved him, as long as they had known each other from a feast of Lord Wyman Manderly a decade ago. When she was of age, she left her family and chose her own love as his own mother did years ago. Barbara’s father and brothers hated him ever since.

                “Lord husband”, Barbara spoke gently, “Perhaps, you should slow yourself. You have all day to work.”

                “She didn’t call you by your first name, Brandon”, his mother said. Alys Stark, younger sister to Lady Lynarra Stark and goodsister to Rickard Stark, was a blunt, unwavering, and affectionate woman with the Stark look. After Lynarra was wed to Rickard, as the last branch family Stark Alys was allowed to wed whomever she wished as long as they were honorable lords loyal to the North. Too much trouble could come from a distant cousin being wed by someone craving power she says he claimed. Regardless of the truth, he was glad she was his mother. “You know she’s upset.”

                “Lady Barbara is correct”, Brandon stated. “There’s plenty of time for stress. Being together is valuable.” He’d eat slower. Simply thinking about his worries caused him to lose track of the moment.

                “Papa?”, he heard to his side, Barbara biting her tongue the moment. Although only six, his son Bryan Snow was a monstrous boy. He grew fast and earl like he did with unkempt dark brown hair, but he had his mother’s pale skin unmatched in the North along with her serene, cerulean eyes. The lad’s presence was hard on Barb, a mark of shame from the night Lord Ashwood denied his proposal at Lady Barbara’s request. He had barely spoken a word to the boy’s mother and she died shortly after his birth. To his gladness, he’s been with Barbara ever since, but he could not deny the existence of his regrets. “I had a sad dream last night.”

                “He’s your lord father, Bryan”, Barbara spoke up. Despite her own informal attitude which his bastard had learned from her, she envied the child’s personal affection without sons of her own holding the opportunity.

                “What was sad about your dream?” Alys asked.

                “Mother was crying. She was bleeding and in pain in your bedroom. You were crying too, father, but outside the room.”

                “Lady Sterling”, Brandon corrected. Barbara clutched her cup. The boy’s informality as an only child and bastard, ever actively encouraged by his mother and passively taught by his wife, was infuriating in the small moments where a child’s disobedience was ignored over his innocence. He knew she disliked it. “Why were we crying?”

                “There were five babes bleeding on the ground, crawling towards a crying Lady Sterling”, Bryan said. “And father watched a large, still dog lying on a bed.” Barbara’s following look distanced herself from reality, losing her gaze at the cup in front of her. A strange dream for anyone to be hung up on.

                “Was I in your dream?” Alys queried. He shook his head tenderly. “No wonder it was a sad dream. Any dream is sad if I’m not there!” The boy smiled brokenly, yet Alys’ nature allows a damn’s cracks to break. Within a minute he was laughing. If his trueborn children had his bastard’s laugh then they’ll be charming to lords and ladies alike.

                The door to the dining room creaked open, his steward Osric eyeing whether the meal was over. After a few seconds, he began to step inside. The worries start again. Thankfully, Osric was a hard-working son of a merchant, young and perceptive. Balding early, but with a thick beard. He’d have made a fine brother and will make an excellent steward over house Sterling’s future if anything were to happen.

                “Barbara, Alys, and Bryan”, Brandon said. “I pray to the gods for an excellent day.”

                A moon had passed before Barbara came to him with great news. She was with child. He had prayed to the gods for years for a son and twice they had cursed him already. Finally, they would bless him. Perhaps his family’s words were wrong. _Rebirth in Winter Dreams_ , yet rebirth will occur during summer for his trueborn child.

                Happy thoughts couldn’t linger long, for his work was still at hand. Lords Ashwood, Locke, Woolsfield, and Manderly all had given raises to their chief miners. Whether more expenses or unwilling workers, he couldn’t afford either choice. Getting a loan from another lord, the Iron Bank, or a smaller bank in White Harbor could be beneficial, yet he couldn’t risk what he didn’t know. There were no signs more silver was going to appear. He scouted all lands surrounding the Sterling mine he owned, yet nothing. The mine seemed ever closer to being stripped bare. If he was blessed by the gods in a miraculous way he wasn’t sure if the mine could operate another twenty-five years. Besides house Sterling’s castle and sword, it was all he had to his name. He couldn’t abandon the blessing of his house or gift from the Manderlys, nor could he afford to live without any villages to be a lord over nor taxes to receive. Well, he planned on establishing villages on his lands once more when he found the coin. _A merchant posing as a mummer’s farce of a lord_ , he was powerless.

                Two moons passed when a servant was unable to contact his lady mother from within her chambers which required his attention. She lay on her bed still as the grey northern sky, eyes shut, and slightly curved lips readying to laugh as if to jump at any moment and surprise her son. She no longer had to worry about her son, trying to force the laughter which never came. Sitting beside her, he placed his hand atop hers, creams-soft and river stone smooth. She never permitted him to wield a sword until he willed it as lord, barely being trained sufficiently for the battle to march with Eddard Stark four years ago. War was why she didn’t want him to swing the sword. He was needed in the north as the only son, soldier, and lord of Castle Sterling. He argued with her adamant nature, which seemed to find more peace in challenging than being right. At her fervent push was Bryan Snow brought to the house to be raised alongside any other children actualized, as well as naming him Torrhen after the last king in the north, a cautious man who thought of others before his pride. A special sight it was to see his wife’s anger at work, refusing for his natural born son to receive a traditional northern name with weight, suggesting a southron name instead which ancestors used to hold. In truth, Barb wished for her own son to be named Torrhen. There had not been time since the war to argue with his mother, and now he’d never argue with her again. Firmly he squeezed her hand as the minutes had turned to nearly an hour.

                Searching for his wife, he walked down the hall to arrive at the sound of a wailing woman through his chamber doors. Cracking it open, he looked inside to find his son calmly sitting beside a hysterical wife. They didn’t notice as he watched the tears rush down her face, holding a densely bloodied rag she would drop on the ground. Two tragedies struck true. Brandon yearned for death, for the old gods have cursed him. At least in death he and his wife would be free of life’s ache like his lady mother, chastising himself for the thought. He would never have a son or daughter with lady Barbara. 

                “I’m sorry”, Bryan said. “I wish I could have done something.”

                “How could you have?” Brandon asked. The wet stains on his cheeks were obvious to both but forced his best calm voice for the news he would need to deliver soon.

                “I told you both my dream”, Bryan said. “I wouldn’t stop dreaming this day, but I didn’t know what to do.” Lady Barbara ceased crying, likely feeling a chill come over her as Brandon did.

                “My goodmother has passed”, Barbara abruptly forced out of her mangled breath. Brandon felt himself grow pale. Alys wasn’t in the dream. Not a large dog, a _direwolf_ he would find lying down. Since he first spoke of the dream, the boy’s tone had changed. He grew less carefree with something always on his mind. How could a boy of six begin to process what’s been going on? _Brandon couldn’t_. “I won’t ever have a child, will I?”

                “Now’s the time for mourning, my lady”, Brandon spoke meekly. “Let’s take time.”

                “No”, the child said. “Sorry, mother, you will only have me.” Without saying a word, Barbara stood up and walked out of their chambers. The sound of her footsteps faded immediately.

                “We’ve been over this Bryan. You are not allowed to call my wife anything but Lady Sterling.”

                “But she is my mother”, Bryan said. “At least she said in a dream.” _Dreams. Dreams_. Curse them all. Pure chance and shit making a hard day worse.

“The dreams are wrong”, Brandon declared. “What else have your dreams told you?”

                “You’ll visit an old lion and a fishman at the ocean. The old lion tells Lady Sterling she won’t have any children, and she tells him he’s wrong. She will say she already has a son.”

                “Your dream is wrong. You’re a bastard, nothing more, and forbidden from speaking to Lady Sterling for the time being.” The boy nodded and left the room. He couldn’t understand what a bastard was, but he knew Barbara wasn’t his mother and how to properly behave. But that was wrong, as Brandon’s lady mother would probably be laughing right now, as she taught him his manners. Saying what he thinks is exactly what he knew to be true, but the boy shouldn’t speak Barbara regardless. A different tutor would be beneficial now that mother has passed, but he had no idea who. Fostering him somewhere with another lord may be cheaper than a private tutor to live here. Looking up, in the doorway was Osric. Brandon left for work without hesitation.

                After the sun had set, Brandon was reunited with his lady wife who was wearing all black in their shared chambers, a tidy, unornamented room. He wasn’t sure what to say during the grieving of the first two miscarriages. Each time he would say the gods would bless them one day with a child, but he wasn’t certain now. Forceful optimism only led to faithlessness in the gods and greater regret. His house may die, his wife a widow without anyone to take care of her except the kin who loathe her.

                “We should send a raven to Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell”, Brandon said.  “He may want her mother to be buried with other Starks since she never took the Sterling name. If not, we can bury her here next to my father.”

                “He should know that his aunt has passed”, Barbara’s voice cracked. Her face was scrunched in thought like his looking at their finances.

                “What is it, Barbara? You know can say anything to me.”

                “I wish to go to White Harbor”, she mumbled. “I wish to speak to their maester about having children.”

                “If this is about what Bryan said, ignore him.”

                “It’s not about what he said!” Barbara shouted. He’s only heard her yell in any capacity a handful of times in their life and never were they directed at him. Even taking in a bastard into their home didn’t produce enough enmity between them to cause a fight. “I have had miscarriages thrice now. Something may be wrong with me. I can’t act the mummer and pretend it’s not hard being unable to have children.” Broken and in-grief as each of the previous two times, believing everything to be her fault. Her brokenness was beautiful. The sincerity in her voice was like his mothers, only gentle and sweet. Ladies always played the mummer when he reached his marriageable age, at least until he let his wealth known, but never his Barbara. He loathed her pain and wished to take it away, but it was her wounded heart which filled her with endless compassion he admired about her.

                “We’ll depart tomorrow then after we send a raven to both Lord Stark and Lord Manderly.”

                “I wish for your son to come with us”, she demanded. Her voice had grown slightly more fierce in her grief. His lady mothers words of wisdom finally sinking in.

                “Very well.”

                Two days is all it took to arrive at White Harbor from Sterling Castle, and the hour was close to supper. The journey was pleasant. The open road was peaceful beneath the North’s frequent grey sky. The outdoors brought solace burials and grieving never could. He had forgotten what it’s like to travel to the Merman’s court.

                White Harbor Castle was a grand place, far better than his own keep, with an enormous court capable of hosting a feast for all of the northern lords. The hall had more ornaments than the entirety of Castle Sterling, with bits of silver and gems in the finely crafted tables and chairs. Aromatic candles were on the walls to light the room. A grandiose man sitting at the court’s end with statues of merman behind him.

                “Welcome Lord Sterling”, Lord Wyman Manderly said. “I received your raven, as well as receive your family as my guests. I offer you salt and bread, as well as supper to be served soon while my servants will show you to your rooms. Maester Theomore is ready to be asked questions at any point about fertility.” Even if Lord Manderly lost everything else, he would be a good host.

                Barbara and Bryan walked with their few things to their rooms, while Brandon chose to stay behind. “Thank you my lord”, he said. “For your hospitality in the rush coming here.”

                “I understand Lord Sterling”, Lord Manderly said. “It took my wife and me plenty years before we had my eldest son Wylis. My cousin Marlon has been wed half as long as I have and still hasn’t had a child. It must be difficult to be the last northern lion.”

                “Aye, my lord, it’s been stressful. Perhaps more stressful on my lady wife than myself. She blames herself for not being with child.”

                “It may only be small consolation, but my lady wife has been praying to the Mother for your wife since we received the raven.” This small kindness, but ultimately pointless statement is how wife felt when he spoke of the gods before. The gods, old or new, could do nothing to help them. Likewise, Lord Manderly could do nothing but pray for the aid of his bannerman in such matters. “I’ve been wanting to ask. Your natural-born son, what do you plan on doing with him?”

                “Forgive me, my lord”, Brandon said. “My wife was adamant about not leaving him behind as he’s a boy of six.” He assumed at least. He didn’t wish to challenge a grieving woman. “I didn’t wish to offend you for our brief stay. He will stay in his room while we’re in your court.”          

                “No forgiveness is needed, Lord Sterling”, Lord Wyman said. “I was speaking of your plans for his future. You said he was six years? He’s over four feet tall. When he’s older, I’d gladly have someone of my household take him as a ward or squire. He’ll make an excellent soldier. Maybe even rival the mountain in power one day.”

                “Unlikely for him to grow that big, my lord. I stopped growing by my fourteenth name day and was barely shorter than him at that age.”

                “You’re still taller than I, Lord Sterling. Even if he’s your height, he’d have an advantage over most southron knights.” Lord Manderly wasn’t inaccurate. Brandon’s size was how he survived King Robert’s Rebellion. His higher view, longer reach, and naturally brawny build allowed him to survive where he’d otherwise die.

                “When the boy ages further, I’d happily come to an arrangement good for both of our houses.”

                “Excellent”, Lord Manderly said. Smells of a smoked carcass permeated the air, with hints of sweet berries. “It seems dinner has been finished and possibly ruined.” The servants brought out many dishes enough for Lord Manderly’s household, but much of the meat was burnt, including the sole lamprey pie Manderly requested for the evening. The roasted pig at the center smelt burnt and raw simultaneously. Yet small treats were edged on the perimeter of the table, strawberry pies made from important fruits. At the head of the table was Lord Manderly, quietly livid in a feigned stoicism. Both men waited a few minutes for others to come to no avail. The meal would get cold too if no one came on time.

                “Forgive me, my lord”, Brandon said. “But I will take my leave to look for my wife since dinner is ready.” Lord Wyman gestured to another servant preparing the hall to walk Brandon to his family, and it took only a couple minutes before arriving at the maester already checking on his wife, not wasting any time. Bryan was not around.

                “It appears your womb has been damaged, Lady Sterling”, maester Theomore said, a fat man with rosy cheeks, hefty lips, golden curls, and emerald eyes. “From my brief examination, what you’ve told me, and the history of woman in similar circumstances, it’s likely you’ll never be able to carry a child to term.” The wall falling into the ocean could not sink his heart as those words did.

                “I thought it was so”, Barbara spoke softly.

                “I’m sorry you’ll never have a child”, the maester said. “It’s hard, but you can keep trying. Supposedly Queen Rhaella Targaryen had multiple miscarriages and stillbirths yet managed to give birth to the former Prince Viserys.” An impossible chance to mimic. “If you have any more questions, feel free to seek me out.” The maester averted Brandon’s gaze, guilty of the news delivered.

                “I’m sorry Barb”, Brandon offered. “I know there’s nothing I can do, but I’m willing to keep trying if it makes you happy.”

                “He was wrong, Bran”, Barbara said. “I will never give birth to a trueborn child, I know it to be true, but we have a son to raise all the same.” She hadn’t jested so darkly in years. For the first time, he wasn’t sure if his wife would remain the gentle spirit she’d always been. After six years, he’d pay the price of her hatred for his bastard.

                “Please don’t joke”, Brandon begged. “I’ll do whatever I can to make you happy. You know I regret the action.”

                “The old gods don’t want me to have a son”, Barb cried, tears streaming down her thin cheeks as she smiled crazily. “They want me to raise yours. I heard what Bran said to you after I left. An old lion would tell me I can’t a babe of my own. Maester Theomore is of house Lannister.” She chose to come here _after_ hearing a dream. _Coincidence was a bastard._

                “He said he could be wrong, Barb”, Brandon said. “Don’t be hasty.” Yet she grabbed his hand and guided him to his son's room silently weeping. Bryan was sitting on the bed quietly staring at the door when they walked in.

                “I don’t need a son if the gods blessed me with you”, Barb said rushing over to the boy. She whispered in his ears as she held him tightly. Mad with a broken spirit but always gentle and loving. “If you name me your mother, I’ll name you my son.” The boy could do nothing but shake his head and mouth _mother_. Brandon knew what his lady wife was thinking, his natural born son was a greenseer like the tales of his house speak of. For hundreds of years, they offered wisdom to House Manderly, even pointing them to the North when hounded by House Gardener. His own mother said his father Barthogan claimed to dream of their wedding and son before they met, as well as the war of the Ninepenny Kings. Focused too much on dreams, their resources dwindled under his leadership and later died of a stroke without any wisdom to offer him. Nonetheless, she had a point.

                “What I think your mother is saying”, Brandon stated, “Do you remember Sterling’s house words and sigil?”

                “House Sterling’s sigil is a silver lion on dark blue with bright blue eyes”, Bryan said. “It’s on the flag outside Sterling Castle, as well as ornaments about the castle.”

                “Very good”, Brandon smiled. “The words?”

                “No, Lord Father.”

                “ _Rebirth in Winter Dreams_. Your dreams are of the old gods blessing and winter’s might. A gift passed down from through house Sterling for hundreds of years in the past but hasn’t been seen in an equally long time. The bright blue eyes matching yours on the sigil were a mark of the family members with the gift.”

                “A _gift_?” the boy asked.

                “Aye, a _gift_ ”, Barb reassured. “And I wish to grant you a gift of my own. Your grandmother wished for your name to be northern. I think she was right. If you’re my son, I’d gift you the name Torrhen of House Sterling.” Hysterical, but genuine. If he was legitimized, there would be no taking it back. Barb was serious. “If that’s ok with your father.”

                “Anything to make you happy”, Brandon embraced his wife and son. “Perhaps time and food will change the mood, but we ought to enter into the hall quickly. Lord Manderly has supper awaiting us.” They followed him silently, with Bryan not leaving Barb’s side, even to sit on the far side of the table away from Lord Manderly’s household and other guests, drawing few stares. Wyman forced his cooks to remake the food as well, shouting at his cooks heard several rooms over, allowing for his family’s lateness to not be actualized. No guest or kin of his would be served slop. When the meal came and everyone enjoyed themselves to their contentment, he would see Barbara sharing the strawberry pie with his son.

                When they arrived home in two days time, his cousin Lord Eddard Stark’s response was given, immensely sorry for his loss. Although she was a Stark in name and heart, she loved her husband's house and hasn’t visited since his own mother’s death. Alys Stark would want to be properly buried close to Barthogan, but a place would be set aside for her all the same in Winterfell’s crypts. A kind offer to come to Winterfell was extended as well, barely knowing each other despite having their mothers be sisters. Within the next day, funeral preparations were made for his mother while they prepared a journey to Winterfell for a brief stay with house Stark.

                Barb adamantly stayed beside her decision to raise Torrhen as her own son. Without an heir of his own, he reluctantly sided with his wife in a few weeks time. A raven would be sent to King’s Landing petitioning Robert Baratheon for his son’s legitimization.

                Returning to work excited his downtrodden heart. Years of tedious work would flow like the harmonious northern wind. If his wife was right, the rebirth of house Sterling would occur in the next winter, guided by their Torrhen’s gift.


	2. Torrhen I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tragedy strikes and Torrhen learns a fancy new word.

Torrhen I

 

                “Any dreams last night?”, Father inquired. Every morning while House Sterling broke their fast he would ask the same question, wishing to know secrets from the gift. Torrhen wanted to focus on the fluffy eggs.  


                “No,” he lied. He’d grow used to that one lie. “Not since a few moons past, Lord Father.” The lie was partial, as his father only cared for dreams relating to his House Sterling’s success. Save a dream where Castle Sterling was destroyed by silver bursting forth from its floor a few moons ago, last night’s vision has been the same reoccurring one in a different scenario since his grandmother passed: a man with skin of bone, starry eyes, and thin snow hair spoke in a crackling, unintelligible voice. The voice was screeching on some days while like milk and honey on others. Whether he was before a fortress of blizzards or an ashen castle, the man would eventually find him to speak and end with the same phrase. The closest thing to understanding him in over three years- Haien.  


                Osric entered the room with the morning meal over, and father left for a week, mentioning a vital deal to be made. Sudden and unsurprising, as with most mornings. Torrhen would be excited for supper where he’d see his father again. Until then, his mother would teach him as the one in charge of his education. On select days, father took him along for the days of work and instructed him to ride, where they’d go scouting the lands, speaking with the miners, and talk to various merchants and silversmiths. Father did a lot of negotiating and kept careful track of every cost change across his entire industry. Although no individual lessons were taught, the significance of every single penny spent was entrenched in his system. Every coin had a place of importance in a lord’s finances.  


                “Torrhen,” mother pleaded, “you know father wishes the best for us.”  


                “I know mother,” Torrhen declared.  


                “Then you must know I hear your tone clearly. Your father asks because he has hope for us and you as the future lord of house Sterling.” Mother was positive. Father felt cold at times, always focusing on his tasks. She was true though, father loved him. “It’s why he’s been looking into houses to foster you. Lord Manderly is willing with your size and proximity to their own lands, but their gods would deny your gift.”  


                “Aye,” Torrhen affirmed. Most southron houses, the Manderlys, and nearly all of their bannermen would gladly deny all the gods have done for his family. Outside of seeing his grandmother pass away, mother bleed, and a man more monster than human the gods haven’t done anything. None of those things seemed particularly good, yet father planted a heart tree springing forth from his confident hope in the gods. The gods must be righteous.  


                “Father is keen on sending you to a prominent Lord,” mother promised. “He’s been scrounging for extra money for some time to send a boy of your circumstances. Besides, if another lord recommended your legitimization, we might receive a quicker answer.” Torrhen wanted to stay at Castle Sterling, but his parents were adamant it would be better for him to leave. Perhaps he’d finally wield a sword. Lucky for him father takes him to ride once in a while.  


                After each breakfast, Torrhen was tutored by mother, as routine, until father would come home. Starting with mathematics revolving around silver circulation, followed by formal letters addressing lords or merchants, and ending on Westeros’ history. Although his mother described his skills in math and writing superb for his age, he loved learning history the most. The day before his father’s return was of King Tristifir of the Rivers and Hills from house Mudd, fourth of his name, the Hammer of Justice. He had fended off the Andal invaders in the Riverlands for ninety-nine battles but lost the one-hundredth. An unfortunate fate for a hero protecting his people. Even legends fall, and heroes die mother urged. A wise ruler lives through defeat.  


                The cook had brought out supper, smoked pork with a bitter aroma, amongst other fruits and vegetables his mother wished. The smoked pork was father’s favorite, particularly with a bitter tang to the seasonings. Torrhen learned to enjoy the flavors, although did not love them like his father. Time passed, and father grew late as the meal became cold.  


                “Come with me,” mother said. Grabbing his hand, the sound of horse hooves slammed in the distance. Shouting started to occur while mother guided him to the entrance near the courtyard. The night was dark, with few torches to light up the area. The snow coloring of the small heart tree to the far left of the courtyard was clearly visible a short distance in front of the stables, while the center where father stood next to the castle’s bell seemed obscured.  
“You will pay us more!” a leather wearing man demanded in the center courtyard, pinning father to the ground; their horses were returned to the stables. He had a long hooked nose, dirty face, and wrathful eyes without a hair atop his head. The chief miner. Several other men were behind him, all with clubs or daggers drawn, with no man to meet them. Outside of an occasional servant who can wield a knife, there hasn’t been a guard for the castle as long as he could remember. “You’ve promised us for three years now.”  
“The bastard’s been lying obviously,” a silhouette said.  


                “I simply need more time,” father declared. “Without me, you wouldn’t have any jobs. Give me a couple moons, and I’ll give you all raises.”  


                “How much?” the chief miner demanded.  


                “A copper piece per day,” father promises. The men lowered their weapons, yet their faces covered in dirt and darkness.  


                “Osric, could he actually pay that?”  


                “If the new venture gives what is predicted, I could double that number,” father urged.  


                “I didn’t ask you.” All of the men turned to Osric, who said nothing. A feint movement was made. All the men readied, while father rolled backward and pushed himself onto his feet, gaining a distance between the miners and himself. The whisper of his steel against leather echoed into the night, brandishing the blade of house Sterling.  


                “The old gods will help,” mother whispered. Suddenly, she began pulling Torrhen’s hand again to the left of the courtyard, edging themselves in the shadows towards the heart tree sapling.  


                Father fought furiously, swinging down with great might to smash the club of the chief miner, knocking him down and maintaining a circle around his foes. A man behind lunged with his dagger to have the fortune of his small frame being cleaved through. Another two tried to attack at the same from opposing sides, but one was kicked down while another ran himself onto the Sterling blade.  


                “What are you two doing out here?” the chunky cook asked. “You should be helping your father.” Waving an arm and whistling, the attention of the attackers was turned to his mother and himself as they ran and broke the circle. The cook grasped his mother and himself with a hand each.  
Father would not let them forgive the chance as he swung through three attackers while running on pace with them. One had their knee ran through and screamed an effeminate cry, another wailing at the loss as they had their back slashed by the blade, and a third had their arm cut off trying to flail a club in defense. The same man as the father who had barely let him hold a blade once or twice was cutting through the attackers like butter. Only the chief miner was alive, grabbing a dagger for each hand as he reached his destination first.  


                “Stop,” the miner declared, grabbing his mother. “Another step and I cut their throats.” His bloodthirsty face was still hard to perceive underneath the dirt. The voice sounded nervous, like the gods themselves were going to punish him. “Drop your sword on the ground, and maybe we can agree on something.”  
“Let them go, and I’ll give everything I can,” father stressed. “They are my life.” The grip of the cook loosened as if to slowly let go. To his side, mother began to struggle with the miner’s grasp. “Don’t harm her!” Father lunged to protect, suddenly going limp as a sword pierced through his chest, the steel crackling with fear. The earth quaked as the stalwart defender plunged towards the ground, a river of blood pouring at Torrhen’s boots.  


                Mother shrieked, forcefully wrestling herself away from the miner as he planted his hand over her mouth. Muffled screams ringing in his ears as he yearned to close his eyes away from the sight before him, with his feet sensing the crimson substance parted by shoes. Yet his eyes could not look elsewhere. The smell of waste and urine permeated the air. The bitterness of the bloodied stench stuck to the pork flavor he desired moments ago. Anxiously struggling to look away, he managed to force his gaze at mother amidst their shock to view Osric cut her throat ear to ear, adding to the lake of blood sticking to the ground. As the cook’s grasp finally let go, Torrhen’s butt smacked onto the ocean, hearing a similar crash behind him. The cook had fallen to the ground, a dagger sticking out of his skull, drowning the heart tree sapling in the blood of Northmen. A faint crackling of the gentle snowfall appeared at his drop.  


                “Victory,” Osric spoke up. “Finally, I can be free to return to my lord.”  


                “What about payment?” the chief miner begged. “I played the mummer and want my coin.”  


                “You still have a life remaining,” Osric assured. “No witnesses.” The husky man leaned over with a dagger in hand, Torrhen unable to move. His blurred face was skinny, covered in dirt, and had rotted teeth. Once again a whisper of steel was sung as he saw a sword pierce through the miner’s stomach and stick itself int the ocean of blood underneath. “Including yourself, dumb cunt. One last bastard to take care of before there are no issues to the castles inheritance.” Osric pulled the sword back, prompting the miner’s bleeding body to fall on Torrhen. Brandishing the Sterling sword into the air, Osric readied to swing down to end Torrhen’s life. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother vacant eyes staring back at him, echoing the faint crackling of death. Torrhen grasped at the young weirwood, hanging on with all force.  


                A grand weirwood was before Torrhen, more enormous than the castle Sterling, white as snow with an imposing face of regal laughter upon it. He had never been here before. Was he dead? Walking towards the trunk, the monstrous white man was back with a solemn face and regretful voice. The man wished to speak, it appeared, but could not find the words. A solace was taken in the beautiful tundra plains and hills surrounding them, with a sage colored, flourishing forest on the side in contrast to the crystal ocean on another.  


                “Haien,” they groaned. A cerulean expanse to his eyes forged their glow ominously as a large winter storm was summoned. Ice shards descended onto the ground around them. A thin greatsword for a single hand was forged into the being’s hand. “Haien.”  


                “I don’t understand,” Torrhen mustered. “All you did was make the winter worse.” The being’s eyes glowed furiously as if the depths of the hells could be opened from them. He walked forward and placed his hands on Torrhen’s shoulders.  


                “Winter,” the being said, the crackling of his voice sounding like thousands being pierced through and the blood being let upon the ground. The storm slightly raging fiercer the few seconds upon the single word. “Haien,” he repeated. He pointed towards the far reached of the horizon, shouting the same phrase with all his might. ”Haien.” Haien meant winter, or at least a frigid cold.  


                Torrhen awoke from the dream, Osric still swinging the Sterling blade down. The moment lasted for an eternity. The sight of his mother and father bleeding onto the thinly snowed earth below. He wished for authority. He hoped for revenge. He wanted to hear his parents tell him everything will be alright. He begged for his parents’ strength.  


                “Haien,” he heard the snow crackle. “Haien,” the crackle repeated infinitely, louder and fiercer than each time before.  
“Haien,” Torrhen wailed, closing his eyes. An indescribable sensation entered into his mind like being jolted by lightning bolt naming him a friend. The light snow’s touch ceased, as a blizzard gathered into a rushing force which thundered and cracked into the courtyard and castle. Mighty crashes barraged onto the earth. The blood ocean reached high tide upon the touch of his fingers as the outburst of a crashing storm ceased.  


                Sterling castle was destroyed. Battering rams of ice launched into the sides of the castle, courtyard, and servant’s quarters, while the moon gently caressed the ice into reflecting its light onto the scene. Osric was dead, ice spiked through in multiple spots, leaving little room to make out where his head use to be. Neither was Osric the only punished body, everyone would now be a corpse before whatever blessing the monster had offered. The beast could have brought this winter upon them, but he didn’t. Their words did nothing, only guiding him to the answer. Torrhen looked down onto his clammed hands, ice protruding from his fingers with an ineffective wintry touch. A bit painful to break off, leaving his skin raw. Quickly, he was standing on his feet once more. Winter had come only when he spoke the word. “Haien,” he said aloud to no effect. He brought the fickle storm which destroyed his home.  


                A few rustling voices carried from outside the castle. Friend or foe, Torrhen couldn’t decide. Exclamations and swears alike, the oncoming group would find the lone survivor of the catastrophe. The iota of relief turned bitter upon realizing all of house Sterling’s friends were dead and had betrayed them. No one beyond the courtyard would help, only question the destruction. None were there to defend Torrhen at the dead of night. Hiding within the winter labyrinth was the best chance to avoid being caught. Beneath his crimson boots, the earth had absorbed the others’ blood, making the navigation of the frozen maze of logs easier.  


                A few feet behind the sapling were damaged stables. A spike had shot through the side where a stall was, leaving a tempting opening. Climbing through the shoulder-high hole, Torrhen plopped onto the dirty floor doused in excrement. A dead horse shared the booth with him, with hay in the corner and a small trough of water on the back wall. Gathering up the feed, he covered part of himself as he sat. It didn’t make him warmer or more comfortable, only producing a disguise unfit to fool a fool.  


                “Seven hells,” a rough voice said. “A fucking massacre. What could have done this?” Only a single image appeared in Torrhen’s mind- himself speaking to the monstrous man.  


                “Lord and Lady Sterling are dead,” a soft, grieving voice said.  
“Let me see,” a stoic voice said. Silence loomed. The other voices waiting patiently for it to speak. “Yes, both of them are dead, as is their steward. Servants turned on them. Although pierced by ice, Lady Sterling’s throat has been slashed. Lord Sterling was pierced with a blade, too thin for the cursed ice pillars. Importantly, Lord Sterling’s bastard isn’t here. Search for him.”  


                Anxious, Torrhen could do nothing but grow cold and tired in the stable stall. Worries forced him awake as his eyes closed, taking him from the misery awaiting him to the land of dreams again. A ghostly tree planted itself in silver. The precious minerals coated the stately tree, as small bushes and vines raged with envy of its strange beauty until it began dying. Without proper soil it had become poisoned, wasting away as the unwilling neighbors pitied its state.  
Waking into an abrupt panicked state, the foul-smelling earth and hay had disappeared with a bed in its place. A man as tall as a father, bald with fading, oak beard, and calm, grey eyes sat next to his bed. He wore silver plated armor with engravings of flowing seaweed. A plate of last night’s smoked pork rested on a nightstand next to a burnt out candle.  


                “Good morning Bryan Snow,” the stoic-voiced man spoke. “I intend you no harm. I’m Ser Marlon Manderly, cousin to Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor, your father’s liege lord. I assume you know what happened last night before we arrived?” Torrhen mustered a nod. It was his fault. “Your parents are gone. For that I’m sorry, but you cannot stay at the castle. The inheritance will be called into question since you are a bastard. We must ride for White Harbor to inform my cousin of what’s happened after eating.” Pork made by an evil man was no food worth serving. He’d rather go hungry. “From the supper laying on the hall’s table, you probably didn’t eat last night. It’s a two-day ride. Eat, or I will make you eat.” Torrhen bit into the bitterly seasoned pork, warmed up over a fire recently.  


                “My name is Torrhen of House Sterling,” he said. “Thank you for the kindness. My mother changed my name three years ago. I am the heir to the castle.”  


                “Not according to the crown,” Marlon said. “Your father never received word of legitimization. When I spoke to him three days ago, you were still a bastard. The castle may go to you, but likely not. Lord Wyman will hear of the matter.” Torrhen gazed into the bowl until it was empty, trying his hardest to ignore his memory.  


                Quickly, Marlon and his men readied for White Harbor and left, with Torrhen riding with Ser Marlon. Staring behind, the castle was Torrhen’s. Damaged or pristine, he would not lose his only possession. His parents warred for him over the castle, believing his dreams held the key to House Sterling’s future. Yet the only future he unlocked was death, loved ones or enemies alike. Watching the castle disappear over the horizon, house Sterling was wiped out- save him. Grandmother, father, mother, and all the servants were dead. Everyone he’d known for his life was killed. Persisting in his mind was the image of their lives taken. Father had fought valiantly to be stabbed in the back. Mother prayed to the gods only to be murdered cruelly. The gods were ruthless, even to the servants who loved or blessed them. His only solace, despite not being able to bury his parents, was the relief to hear Ser Marlon mention they’d done it at sunrise before he woke.  


                The gift was a curse bestowed by the gods, for it did not grant vision of house Sterling’s doom. The dreams showed the castle being obliterated by a mountain of silver moons ago, but greed was only an actor in the mummer’s farce of a cause. Someone wanted his family dead. Osric had mentioned he served another lord, and Ser Marlon was sent by Lord Manderly to arrive immediately after the enemy party had. Nonetheless, Torrhen is alive under Ser Marlon’s care. Not an idea to venture on for the man who wished him dead, nor could he do anything. He didn’t like to think of the matter, but mother had explained to him in the past what a bastard was. If another natural-born lord opposed him, the other man would be favored. The curse was his only helping hand.  


                The previous dream repeated itself the night he slept on the road. A tree drowning in silver, envied by others. When misfortunate struck, no one cared to lift a finger. Without father asking every morning, Torrhen would need to remember dreams on his own volition, for they spoke of the past, present, and future. Understanding the dreams were a different matter as they were difficult to interpret. Mother described the gift as being able to appear both literally and metaphorically, the latter being a new concept at the time. Worse, the dreams could show as both simultaneously. Mother explained, in his dream describing grandmother’s death, the direwolf symbolized her because it’s a sigil of house Stark, yet father appeared clear as day in his own shape and form. In the last two nights’ dream, the ghastly tree could be an actual tree, a noble house, or any number of things. Interpreting was difficult, yet came with ease to mother. The terrifying helplessness of seeing her throat slashed propped itself into his mind like an unwanted guest impatiently demanding salt and bread as they besieged his castle walls. However, through the silent thoughts on the ride, he came upon a treasured realization, eagerly awaiting his next night. The curse may be a gift after all if he’s dreamed mother vividly before he may again. Dead to the world, she lives in the fortress of the past.  


                Arriving at White Harbor in the dead of night was Ser Marlon’s party. Trotting through the sleeping city, Torrhen was amazed at the many houses and buildings. Three years ago he thought the same. Everything was vast in comparison to castle Sterling, as well as a rotten odor consuming the area. Before long the group had made its way to the Merman Court at White Harbor Castle, and Torrhen was immediately directed to his guest room to sleep, where he dreamt the of the ghostly tree once more.  


                Following in the morning, Marlon came to wake the boy up to break their fast, as on the road they ate sparingly. An unnerving kindness, but he was glad to see the same face which had brought him here. They walked together to the Manderly dining hall where a rotund man with a zealous expression sat along with two men and women finely dressed in similar blue clothes, thin, soft, and more elegant than anything his mother had worn with two girls younger than himself. They stared in silence.  


                “This is Lord Wyman Manderly,” ser Marlon said. “He’s asked for you to sit between him and me.” The meal was delicious but straightforward with smoked ham, boiled eggs, crisped bacon, bread spread with strawberry preserves, and bite-sized chunks of a spiced cheese.  


                “It’s good to see you eating, Bryan Snow,” Lord Manderly said, devouring his meal. “After Ser Marlon relayed to me what happened, I was worried if you had it in you to eat.” Torrhen forced his bite of bacon down his throat, the sharp crisps scratching his throat. “What you’ve experienced is difficult. I lost my parents long ago. Even used to the grief after years there can be an ache. Your father was a good man, diligent and focused. Lady Barbara was the gentlest soul I’ve known and could put septas to shame. Despite not being her child, Brandon said she loved you as her own since your last visit.”  


                “Thank you, my Lord,” Torrhen spoke, “For the kind words. I honestly don’t know what to do next.”  


                “I will help you figure that out,” Lord Manderly said. “In a week’s time, Lord Duncan Ashwood will arrive. We will sort out the four claims to Castle Sterling justly. From there, I can advise you on what to do.”  


                “Four people have claimed the castle?”  


                “Aye, four immediate claimants to Sterling Castle. You were never legitimized; therefore, you cannot inherit. However, that does not mean you cannot take upon the house name, sigil, and words if I name you lord and no one to contest it. Second, there’s Lord Ashwood, whose daughter was Lady Barbara Sterling. The third is Lord Eddard Stark, who has a claim through Lady Alys, although won’t act on it. Last is me since it’s not uncommon for a bannerman without an heir to have their lands inherited by their liege lord.” Torrhen remained quiet as the Manderly oglers left, uncertain of his words to the remaining Lord Manderly and Ser Marlon.  


                “Tell me, Snow,” Ser Marlon said. “What happened to the castle?”  


                Torrhen froze.  


                “Did something abnormal occur?” Lord Manderly asked. “My cousin informed me of its state.”  


                “I don’t know,” Torrhen stammered. “Father was killed. Then mother was murdered, and as they went for me, I closed my eyes. Hearing a sound like thunder, I looked to see a storm had killed everyone.”  


                “Sounds like the Seven had mercy on you,” Ser Marlon said. “The gods saved you. I can’t imagine anything else.” Torrhen nodded, relaxing the internal panic from thinking of the event.  


                “Before Lord Ashwood arrives, you’ll be allowed to keep eating with us,” Lord Manderly said. “With all that’s happened, I care not whether I sit with a natural born, but after he arrives, then you’ll be eating at a different table lest he thinks I’m mistreating my bannermen.”  
Torrhen had taken his leave when they were done, retreating to his room to wait between meals. The week was filled with tears during the day, unable to escape the thoughts and experience as it slowly distanced itself from. The boy knew he was there. He brought the storm, yet the memory felt like a whisper from a mile away across the busiest streets on White Harbor. Mental images of his father’s and mother’s lifeless bodies were an unescapable horseman hunting down the remnants of an enemy force. Compassion and his solitude worried Lord Manderly, however minimal, who urged visits to the sept each day. The first and only visit held empty pity words he cared little for, as his parents never repented of their sins to the seven they cannot go to any of the seven heavens, according to a shrill septa. The big bearded septon in charge described this as untrue and a frequent disagreement over what he referred to as the subject of theology. Neither mattered, as his parents would never want him to approach the seven for help, notably when the Winter dreams offered the freedom the Seven never will.  


                Thrice a dream occurred each night before Lord Manderly’s judgment. The first dream was always the same, the pale monster who yelled wrathfully in the merman court before ending with the useless haien. The second was the dream of the ghostly tree dying of silver. Last was a dream in the morning, each one different. Visions of his family, mighty spiders, haunting specters, a conquering wolf, a lion with an eagles face covered in fire, a dragon with a wolf’s head fighting a dragon with a snake’s face, and a city covered in ash. Each nightmare brought renewal, a twisted peace perceiving the world’s troubles far more significant than himself.  


                After a week Lord Ashwood and his family had come into the court, Torrhen guided to the main hall for the matter to be settled. Lord Manderly dressed in a fine turquoise doublet with gold and silver trims, fitting well. In contrast, Lord Duncan Ashwood wore an orange doublet with an ill tree on his chest, tightly fitting around his stomach. Where Lord Manderly was heavy all-around in equal portion, Lord Ashwood had an enormous belly with thin limbs. His lady wife dressed in a pasty gown, while the children and grandchildren wore with the purpose of matching the lord and lady. Beside Lord Manderly was Ser Marlon, handing the lord a piece of parchment.  


                “Shall we get down to business?” Lord Ashwood requested. No time to waste in his tone.  


                “Certainly,” Lord Manderly said, sitting on the high seat at the end of the hall. “Lord Eddard Stark sent a raven with no interest in pushing his claim. As Brandon Sterling’s son, Bryan Snow is disqualified from inheriting his father’s lands but holds the strongest claim. I lean to naming him lord. State your own claim, Lord Ashwood.”  
“As a father to Lady Barbara Ashwood, I stand to inherit everything she owns without children or a husband to her name,” Lord Ashwood declared.  


                “Lady Sterling,” Torrhen spoke up. “Mother called herself Lady Sterling.”  


                “Be quiet, bastard,” an Ashwood son named Artos said, short and lean, with an ungrateful face. “My sister would never pride herself in a weak house. She was an Ashwood at birth and until death.”  


                “Forgive me, my lord,” Torrhen said. “I didn’t know. Truthfully, she never spoke of any of you.” The man grasped his sword, as if to payback an insult, yet ceased before he drew it. Strangely calm anger, unfitting of the words, but neither was Torrhen lying. Mother barely spoke a word of her family. The one thing she never talked about.  


                “Let’s try to be courteous,” Lord Manderly warned. “Being rude in the court of your liege lord does not foster good relations.”  


                “Forgive us, my lord,” Lord Ashwood said. “I stand by my point that the boy is a bastard. Castle Sterling and its mine rightfully belong to me.”  


                “How do we even know who died first?” Ser Marlon said. “I was there, my lord. The place was a bloody massacre. There is no indication she died after Brandon Sterling. If she died before Brandon, you lose your claim, and the castle would default to Lord Wyman.”  


                Duncan Ashwood looked at Torrhen expectantly, knowing he could answer the question. Hesitation existed as a calculation in his mind on whether Torrhen would lie or speak the truth. Lord Ashwood is who Osric mentioned, at least he thought. Torrhen’s heart sunk, unable to mumble a word. The ghostly tree was house Ashwood’s sigil. Planting themselves into the silver mine meant they’d succeed today. Yet the bitter turned sweet as he knew they’d be punished one day: poisoned by the silver they wish to own.  


                “What say you, bastard?” the Ashwood lord finally asked, but Torrhen grew incapable of responding. The dream repeated itself in his mind, toying with the possibilities of the tree’s death.  


                “Is everything alright, Bryan Snow?” Lord Manderly asked.  


                “Lady Sterling and I were held hostage,” Torrhen vomited, face growing hot. “Father was stabbed in the back as he tried to save us. Mother’s throat was cut after.” Ser Marlon’s eyes grew wide, watching in disbelief as Lord Ashwood grinned maliciously.  


                “It appears Bryan does not want to inherit Castle Sterling,” Ser Marlon erupted. “Such a foolish thing could not be said otherwise.”  
“Don’t chastise the lad for being honest or honorable,” Lord Manderly said. “What’s the difference of a few seconds for inheritance, Lord Duncan? Matters not when she never ruled, established an heir, nor had a betrothal between you and Brandon. I’ve known everything you’ve claimed until now already. Unless you have anything better to say, we are done here.”  


                “I have other matters I wish to discuss in private.”  


                “That is fine. Allow me time to deliberate on the judgment. You’ll know the decision in the evening.” An awkward silence took shape as Lord Manderly quietly mulled things over. Lord Ashwood stayed behind as the Torrhen and the others left, the former aiming for his room.  


                “What were you thinking?” Ser Marlon asked, suddenly grabbing Torrhen by the arm. “You could have invalidated his claim if you lied.”  


                “Lord Ashwood will receive the castle,” Torrhen promised. “It matters little by what I say.”  
“My cousin has been painstakingly helping you when he doesn’t need to. He’s sat beside you at meals, a proud bastard who calls his father’s wife mother. You’ve brought shame to the court. Do you know how foolish this will look if it spreads?”  


                “Forgive me, Ser Marlon,” Torrhen said curtly. What he did factor little into the future. Only destruction and misery would come. The determination in the poor future went to the reality that evening as Lord Ashwood was granted Castle Sterling, his family was blessed by septon upon converting to the faith of the seven, and his sons were knighted by Wyman. Lamprey pies were served for supper in celebration, each lord eating their fill as Torrhen sat at the end of the dining hall eating Lamprey for the first time. Each bite tasted sweeter than the last. Father hated the pie, as he dreamed of a Manderly feast in his youth.  


                On the morrow, Lord Ashwood left for his new land, barely acknowledging Bryan Snow except for the claimant meeting. While his sons made their obnoxiously loud disdain open with supper and breakfast and the woman wouldn’t look his way, Lord Ashwood gave polite, maniacal smiles beginning and ending with their eye contact.  


                “Bryan Snow,” Lord Manderly called upon house Ashwood’s exit of White Harbor. “Do you wish to know why Castle Sterling was granted to Lord Ashwood?”  
“For their conversion to the Seven?” Torrhen responded.  


                “It played a part,” Lord Manderly admitted. “When your father visited me last, I agreed to buy the last Sterling mine 300 gold dragons. The funds would be used to foster you at another lord. We discussed houses Bolton, Hornwood, Umber, and occasionally Stark. However, since you have no source of income and a destroyed castle, the lands are worthless” It would be worthless, but it was Father’s castle. “In the situation he passed, I’d have you raised in White Harbor as a part of the contact. I was contemplating the best course of action. As such, you’ll squire for Marlon.” He’d grow where the dreams were hated. “Concerning the gold, it was immediately spent. You’ll be sent to be fostered and warded by Lord Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, your father’s cousin and closest to kin. Time will be split between White Harbor and Winterfell until you come of age.”  


                Torrhen struggled to remember Lord Stark from three years ago. Guidance from others, not mother and father was disheartening. His name wouldn’t be Torrhen Sterling. People ignored his mother’s decision. No one endeared themselves to the gift like Father. Those who loved him were dead. He felt lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the poor formatting. I'm struggling to figure out how to indent on this website since I cannot upload files, only copy paste. I was fine with chapter 1 by selecting the framework, but I wasn't able to this time. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and have a good day!


	3. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torrhen comes to live with house Stark in Winterfell. A couple of glimpses into a different upbringing with another bastard in the house.

Jon I

 

                The day was young, and the fast had not been broken when Torrhen Snow would arrive with an escort of an older knight with a great beard- each on a horse. Father, Robb, Theon, and Jon had gone out to meet their guests in the courtyard. When Jon met him for the first time when he was younger, he thought they were brothers since they shared the same surname of Snow. Later, Father discussed with him what Snow meant.  


                “Ser Marlon,” Father greeted. “And this must be young Torrhen. I pray your journey was smooth.” While the knight stood upright, the boy gazed at the earth beneath his feet.  


                “Rough at first,” Ser Marlon described. “Young Bryan Snow was a fledgling rider on his pony. The lad couldn’t stay calm and kept pulling on the reins.”  


                “Forgive me, Ser Marlon,” Father declared. “While still a Snow, my cousin and his lady wife had decided on the name Torrhen during their last visit. While at Winterfell, I will respect his wishes for his sake and the boy’s namesake.” Torrhen looked up at Lord Father.  


                “I understand,” Ser Marlon agreed. “No one wishes to dishonor their kin, as I don’t wish to dishonor my cousin’s decision on the matter. It’s been a long ride since our last stop. Might the boy and I grab something to eat after he settles down?”  


                “Certainly,” Father agreed. “You will receive bread and salt, among any other needs you have. Boys, would you show Torrhen to his room? Meet us in the hall after.”  


                Three years had passed since Jon had last seen Torrhen. He stood taller than any of the boys, even the eldest Theon. His dark brown hair was similar to Jon’s, but his moon colored eyes could light the night. His stature was tall, but his posture felt grieved. When they were younger, he spoke often and loudly. Now, not a word was said as Robb led them to Torrhen’s room. Its heavy brown door was a short stretch past Jon’s own place.  


                “Here is your room,” Robb declared. Torrhen nodded sluggishly.  


                “Not even a thank you?” Theon prodded. “The bastard has no manners.” Jon winced. He didn’t quite understand why a bastard was disliked, but people threw the word out as an insult at him, and now Torrhen too. It felt cruel to poke fun of a boy who will never know his mother.  
“Even you barely spoke a word your first day, Theon,” Robb laughed. Robb was a kind older brother, even to those he was not. “He’s not rude, just shy.”  


                The boys walked into the plain room. Everything was tidy yet untouched from the emptiness. Torrhen set down a small, deflated pack, looking as empty as the room. Father had told Robb, Jon, and Theon concerning what happened to Torrhen. His parents died, but because he was called a bastard, he wouldn’t inherit Sterling Castle or anything of his fathers.  


                “Thank you, my lord,” Torrhen mumbled. He looked at his three peers, not moving anything but his wandering eyes between their own feet. “I don’t know what to do now.”  


                “We’ll go eat,” Jon enthused. “I’m sure the cook made something good.”  


                “Aye, Father and Ser Marlon expect us in the hall,” Robb agreed. Quietly the boys walked. Robb occasionally gazed to Torrhen, wishing to jump at a chance to speak to him, and Theon wistfully smirked and snickered to himself down the hall. Torrhen walked beside Jon pace for pace, struggling to keep his eyes ahead.  


                At their varied paced arrival the boys ate together with the rest of house Stark. Torrhen was still quiet, barely saying a word. Father and Ser Marlon went on about the Stark children and bits of the periods when Torrhen would stay at Winterfell and White Harbor. Lady Stark was missing, nursing baby Brandon. Probably a good thing too. Her stare was a tantrum. She didn’t like Jon because he was a bastard, so she’d dislike Torrhen also. It was pleasant to know her fiendish gaze wouldn’t harm them on his first day.  


                After eating Ser Marlon and Father continued to speak at length and the boys were instructed to show Torrhen around all of Winterfell. Toddler Arya wished to follow but couldn’t keep up, so she and Sansa stayed behind with the septa while Lady Stark was busy. The day was dull and long, where they marched around Winterfell with purpose as they had done with Theon months ago, only interrupted by a leaving Ser Marlon. As the journey finished at the Godswood, Torrhen finally reacted before the heart tree, mesmerized by its face, his lips carrying no words while his eyes read the tree’s stance and perked his ears as if hearing the voice of a kind stranger. The boys began playing, Torrhen too at their prodding, until supper and bed. The day ended with Jon feeling that both everything and nothing occurred- a silent cousin to live with them.  


                Horrifying screams sieged Winterfell’s castle, bouncing off the hall outside in an unspeakable screeching whisper that sounds like blades of ice crashing into each other. Old nan had told the boys the stories before. The Others, giants, wildlings, monstrous spiders, snow bears, and many a creature would like to eat all in the castle, yet whatever made the noise sounded wounded and scared. Jon managed to trudge his feet to the door and peek outside, the scream only getting louder.  
“Haien,” the voice screeched. It was otherworldly.  


                Father marched down the hall shortly with the maester and Ser Rodrik both rustled from bed followed by a night guard clutching his sword.  
“How long has he been like this?” Father asked.  


                “I’ve been hearing him do this for close to ten minutes now, m’lord,” the guard whimpered. “He sounds like he’s possessed by an Other.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Maester Luwin declared. “He’s a boy. He’s probably having night terrors.” Their voices faded as they reached Torrhen’s room. The screaming ended shortly.  


                As the week went on, Torrhen grew quieter as his shouts loudened. No one could do anything. Robb tried his best to be inclusive, Theon wanted to make him laugh, while the little siblings attempted small acts of kindness, but everything faltered when they stopped getting decent sleep. Father was shaken by the screams. Nothing in Jon’s life have he could imagine would make his father anxious, but as he found Father speaking to Torrhen once, he heard mutterings of a tower and Father has been pacing ever since. Maester Luwin treated him with different medicines, yet nothing could appease his mind.  


                After a week of terror in the night, the screams suddenly vanished. Out of habit, Jon awoke in the darkness. Hearing nothing, a curiosity overwhelmed him. He hadn’t seen Torrhen scream. Was he ok now? Against his memories forcibly staying awake from the terrifying sounds he got up, lightly stepped down the hall, and entered Torrhen’s room to find the bed made with no one resting inside. Instead of going to father or getting a guard, he left for the only place he thought Torrhen could be. None wanted to be woken once more on his behalf.  


                Amidst the Godswood, before the great weirwood was Torrhen covered in shadows as the first hint of sunlight began taking a peek at Winterfell. He rested against the heart tree, moving slightly as Jon grew near.  


                “Why have you come here?” Torrhen asked wearily.  


                “To make sure you were alright,” Jon stated. “I didn’t want to wake the others. They’ve gotten little sleep as it is.”  


                “We hold the same reason for coming here then,” Torrhen spoke. “Your family is annoyed by me, and Lord Stark doesn’t wish me to tell him my dreams. I didn’t wish to keep everyone up, so I resolved to stay awake, but it was impossible in my bed, so I came here.”  


                “Our family,” Jon corrected. “Why come to the Godswood?”  


                “I sense something from the tree,” Torrhen mumbled. “I feel safe.”  


                “What are you dreaming that makes you afraid?”  


                “My parents,” Torrhen lamented. “Not just their deaths, but the worst parts of their life. I dream of my father losing his father, mother doing that which she does not want, and a monster who curses their existence.”  


                “A monster? What about the monster was scary?” Jon questioned. He knew he couldn’t talk about his parent's deaths with no idea what to say.  


                “He controlled winter,” Torrhen elaborated. “Blizzards swarmed at the wave of his hand. His sword could strike down mountains with loyal soldiers which numbered like snowfall. Dragons fled his presence. He wore a silver crown atop his head.”  


                “Not what he looked like? Aren’t monsters supposed to look scary?” Torrhen was silent, keeping his tongue at bay knowing the answer.  


                “I guess,” Torrhen said. “Not this one though.”  


                “He sounds like a mighty king if he has a crown,” Jon suggested. “Maybe he will protect you instead?” Torrhen’s head straightened for a moment before resting.  


                “The Old Gods will protect me then,” Torrhen told him. Jon couldn’t tell if he was making a jest, but he hoped Torrhen was true. His eyes began to slip as the sun lifted its light into the sky. “What if I’m the monster?”  


                “Then you’re an idiot,” Jon declared. “For only an idiot would think you’re a monster. You look far from scary, and the only thing you hurt is the castle’s sleep.” Behind him were soft footsteps crunching in the snow.  


                “I thought someone was missing,” Father said, appearing beneath out of a tree’s shadow. “Two someones apparently. It's good to see him rest.” He closed the distance with gentle steps.  


                “Lord Father, do you think Torrhen is a monster?” Jon asked. His father gazed at the boys.  


                “Don’t be ridiculous, Jon,” Father assured. Torrhen rustled to his feet. “The farthest thing from it. He’s having a hard time, but he will grow, for winter is coming.”  


                “And rebirth comes in winter dreams,” Torrhen spoke.  


                “Aye,” Father agreed. “Winter changes people, for better or worse. Even a monster can become noble when starving in a winter, and a noble Lord can become heartless if it means his castle skips a meal. It matters not if you are a monster, although you are not. It matters who you become.” The godswood whistled from the breeze between the multitude of branches, rising in a faint song stretching between the trees. “If nothing else, pray. Search the godswood for assurance, for we are safe here.”  
“Thank you, Lord Stark,” Torrhen said half-hazard. “I think I understand. The nightmares are only real if I let them be.”  


                “No, the nightmares are real,” Father coldly promised. Torrhen turned towards the tree, clutching the bone-colored bark. “What matters is where you go from there, and that is why you will be my ward. I am not content to leave you in weakness.”  


                Jon knew not what to say, nor did Torrhen he guessed, for not even low mumblings came from his tongue. Only the sounds of the early morning whispered beneath forest’s face, with the birth of a faint chirp in the distance and a rustling courtyard wakening into daily activities.  


                “Thank you,” Torrhen spoke bittersweetly, averting his eyes to the weirwood. “I will work hard, as I did for Father and Mother.”  


                “Let’s go eat,” Father smiled.  


                The castle continued to rest, and in a few days, the dawn had come has it always has. The sun leaned weakly in the sky when Jon, Robb, Theon, and Torrhen entered into the courtyard, still slippery from a slightly muddied ground by a light snow dew. Four dummies had been set up near a castle wall, bits of hay protruding from its worn sacks.  
“Grab a wooden practice sword,” Rodrik commanded. “It’s time to practice wielding a sword.” Jon could see Robb’s excitement. They had practiced hitting each other with sticks but barely grasped a practice sword. Father promised they were nearing the age to start practicing regularly, but the lessons were irregular at best. Now, they could pick up a wooden sword again.  


                “We have to use wooden swords,” Theon groaned. Rodrik didn’t say a word, only raising his eyebrows as if returning his question with another question.  


                “We haven’t been allowed to hit dummies yet,” Robb enthused. “Is it finally time?”  


                “Yes, my Lord,” Rodrik said. “Your Lord Father and I spoke about it. Since Torrhen’s never wielded a blade in his life, he needs to begin training immediately. And we agreed it’s better to have you three start at the same time.”  


                “He’s never wielded a sword?” Theon laughed. “What was he learning?”  


                “How to be a Lord,” Torrhen stated. “Father said managing our money was more important than fighting. When war happened and he road south, he picked up the basics of sword fighting easily enough.  


                “A bastard being a lord?” Theon asked. “Are you sure he didn’t let you wield a sword because you would hit yourself in the head?”  


                “Perhaps picking up a sword and wielding it battle for a time could help drill the basics into him,” Rodrik contended. “But mastery takes years, and Lord Stark wishes you all to have mastery in the sword when it’s needed. Like all skills, learning from an early age helps root the basics for the rest of life.”  


                “What is complex about mastering swordsmanship?” Torrhen asked. “Father always just wielded a sword with no problem. Aren’t the basics obvious?” Jon’s ears piqued with interest. Something in him tightened at the question. He noticed Robb listening intently beside him as if any distracting thing Theon would say was unintelligible.  
“

                A master swordsman has many qualities,” Rodrik explained. “Being in excellent shape, fighting with wit, caution, self-certainty, a calm attitude, timing, knowing your reach, and lacking a predictable rhythm among other qualities. The ability of a master starts with the basics.” He bent his knees ever slightly, digging his feet lightly into the ground with the crumbling mud whispering readiness. “Having a firm stance yet remaining nimble is critical. A trained soldier can dig his feet into the ground to strike or parry but move again in a moment’s notice.” The northern knight unsheathed his sword swiftly, the steel echoing off its leather sheaths. “Wielding the blade itself takes time. Blades come in different weights and lengths. Building up the strength to where its effortless is paramount when entering into a battle.” He rested the blade to his side, maintaining his grip, ready to strike. “And then there’s breathing. Exhaling in and out periodically to regulate your bodies’ state. Being of clear mind is important in choosing strikes, as well as avoiding hits. An anxious man is too focused on the sword to notice a kick or enemy attack from behind. Letting fear take over your thoughts can kill you.” Torrhen’s face turned downcast, a sour thought which seemed to hang on his tongue left unspoken.  


                Jon wielded his wooden blade in his right hand. They were to practice holding the sword proper hand placement and strike the air, and if they showed enough endurance, they could hit a dummy. The weight of a wooden sword felt nearly unbearable for longer than a minute, setting it down into the engulfing ground. They were expected to do this for a while.  


                “It’s heavy, isn’t it Jon?” Torrhen asked.  


                “Aye,” Jon said. “I can’t believe Father does this with steel.”  


                “Valyrian Steel,” corrected Robb. “It’s a bit lighter, but Ice is enormous for a greatsword.”  


                “My father was larger than most,” Torrhen said. “I don’t think holding a sword was hard for him because he was so big, but he never trained with it because it wasn’t hard.”  


                “The gifted don’t always take advantage of their opportunity,” Rodrik elaborated.  


                “I’m surprised it’s heavy for you, Torrhen,” Robb reflected. “You’re bigger than Theon.” Honestly, it was strange. Of everyone here, Theon had the least difficulty holding a practice sword despite Torrhen easily being the biggest one. His timing in maintaining possession, dropping the sword to his side to rest on, and picking it up with renewed vigor was barely better than Jon’s own rhythm. At their pace, when they are Torrhen’s age, they will be vastly superior.  


                “I’m glad it’s heavy,” Torrhen decided.  


                “Talent can rob discipline,” Rodrik declared. “It will not be like that here. This will be hard work, but after getting used to swinging practice swords, you can begin fighting each other.”  


                “We’ll finally fight each other as men, Jon,” Robb promised.  


                “You’re still boys,” Rodrik said. “You can fight each other as men when you’ve grown some more.”  


                “Still, I want to face you, Jon,” Robb spoke. “We won’t have to war with sticks forever.” Jon struck upwards into the air, the wooden blade skidding off the ground whispering into the sky above, delighting with the prospect.  


                At the edge of the courtyard, above on the castle’s walkway, was Father watching and smiling with gentle curiosity out of the corner of Jon’s eye. Valor filled Jon’s spirit, each swing with as much as strength as he could muster. He wanted to learn how to fight with a sword to fight Robb in courageous single combat, yet murmurs buzzed in the back of his mind to be like Father, a noble warrior capable of defeating the greatest swordsman who ever lived. That would make Father the best, Jon realized. To fight with his brother and be like his Father were his heart’s simple desire. The day felt well spent.  


                Years seemed to fly by. Torrhen’s fourteenth nameday had just passed when Ser Rodrik was going to take Robb, Torrhen, and Jon hunting. The southeastern tip of the Wolfswood was only two hours away by horse. They had to get up early to arrive by dawn, shortly before the first feeding. Hunting for sport was a treat not to be done frivolously, as much of the North’s incomes come from game. While, as Lord of the North, Lord Father could go hunting as much as he wanted on his own lands, he refused to accept zealously hunting for sport anything but irresponsible and a detriment to future incomes of the people he serves and Winterfell outside of special occasion. They were never prohibited from it, but they all knew Father’s attitude. But today, the three boys would hunt together in competition freely, guided by Ser Rodrik. They would hunt bucks, no more than one for each of them, as they would take home whatever they could carry. Whoever had the buck with the biggest rack would win. Delight settled in his heart. The day could only be better if Father were here.  


                Dawn had yet to even crack over the horizon, as the night sky had begun to slightly change color from its pitch black to adding minor tints of blue and yellow through clouds covering the heavens above. Steps were taken with caution, as the crackling of branches and leaves could alert prey. It was lucky the wind was flowing against them. No deer could smell them coming.  


                “Look for what doesn’t belong, the slightest movement, and be watchful of unseeable places,” Ser Rodrik reminded the three of them, as they began to hike in. While he was no Lord Father, Jon had grown to respect Ser Rodrik greatly as the master of arms at Winterfell. Under Ser Rodrik, the four boys grew as warriors, each with a different talent in swordsmanship.  


                Each day had become a treasure to Jon, and the wild little Arya would come to follow them around wherever they went, interested in whatever they did all day long. Robb would always love and chastise her- she had to listen to mother no matter how much he enjoyed playing with her. He was disciplined. Theon paid little attention to her- or anyone not Robb or Lord Father for that matter- he seemed far more interested in girls older than himself. Whatever he did was done confidently. Jon himself adored his little sister, and while Lady Catelyn didn’t like the two spending time together, they found a way to play through his careful observation. He would always find a way.  


                With Torrhen, Arya was initially ignored by him, but he rarely spoke, to begin with. Even as time went on, the childish gregariousness he once had permanently departed. He would only talk with an initiative to Jon and Father for many a moon’s turns until one day Arya had vanished. The better part of two hours was spent searching for her, with Lady Catelyn quite livid, questioning all the children she could. At one point, she was found praying with Torrhen before the heart tree, hair and clothes covered in dirt. The entire Stark family was there to watch.  


                “How could you not tell us you knew where she was?” Catelyn asked indignantly. Jon could still hear the frustration and motherly wrath in her voice. The scene from a year ago felt clear.  


                “I didn’t know she was missing, Lady Stark,” Torrhen responded, Arya, hiding behind like a pup ready to bolt.  


                “The entire castle is searching for her for how long, and you didn’t know?” Catelyn retorted.  


                “I’ve been praying, Lady Stark,” Torrhen stated.  


                “For two hours?” Catelyn asked. Jon, not wishing to worsen the situation with his presence, stayed a slight distance away, yet he could feel her eyes roll with enough force to turn over the castle.  


                “Aye, Lady Stark,” Torrhen said. Jon could feel his stomach in knots while simply watching the scene, yet Torrhen was calm before her. “She wished to pray too, so I’ve been showing her how.”  


                “Then show me,” Catelyn demanded. “Arya, show me how to pray to the Old Gods.” Not a second later, Arya sat on the ground, mumbling before the weirwood.  


                “I think Lady Stark wishes to hear the words, Lady Arya,” Torrhen chuckled.  


                “To the gods of the weirwood, I pray for peace for myself,” Arya declared. “I don’t remember most of what Torrhen spoke, but he said you were always listening, and that there were no special words for prayer.” A gentle breeze inconspicuously flew underneath the godswood, whispering a wordless response. “I pray for my mom, that she’s not angry, because no one enjoys being angry. I pray that Torrhen doesn’t get in trouble for teaching me how to pray to you. I don’t know what else to say. Thank you for hearing my prayers.” Lady Stark smiled at her daughter.  


                “Next you’ll learn about the Seven,” Catelyn determined. “They’ll be happy to hear your prayers too.” She had begun to walk Arya back to castle.  


                “I don’t really care about praying,” Arya said. “I just wanted to see what Torrhen was doing, and he promised to play with me later.” It was only a moment before they and everyone else were out of earshot.  


                The next day, Torrhen kindly kept his word and was convinced by Arya to keep playing with her long after, while she began to pray with him on occasion. Nothing spectacular happened, but it awed Jon that Torrhen was able to take Lady Stark’s anger. Yet Arya’s persistent curiosity had performed the more significant task of warming Torrhen up to others, albeit slightly, since then. The early makings of a knotted stomach and an angry Lady Stark led to balance.  


                As the grey sky and forest top covered the sun’s gift of light, the four of them had each found a position relatively close to each other, vigilantly watching for the slightest movement. Jon felt eager to see the biggest deer. Finding whatever animal they were hunting by the size and shape tracks came easily to Rodrik with a lifetime of experience. Robb was an excellent shot and didn’t need to close as much distance once an animal was spotted. Torrhen was the worst shot, but he had luck like no one would believe with animals. Animals couldn’t notice his presence. Jon and Robb watched him take a doe once. They both swore he could have killed it with a blade before it saw him, but he- and everyone else they told- thought they were jesting. The others had won enough; it was Jon’s time to take the largest buck.  


                A bowstring smacked the air. The wailing of a dying deer accompanied the sound carried by the breeze. To his right was Robb, who he spotted moving swiftly after his prey.  


                “I got the first one,” Robb shouted. They gathered at Robb’s prize. On his right were one tine and two more on his left. “He has six points.”  
“Not a very big buck,” Torrhen said. “It won’t be hard to beat.”  


                “Bigger than your buck, Other Snow,” Robb assured. Jon laughed at his jest, as it was one of his favorites. As the second bastard to live in Winterfell, Torrhen wasn’t deserving to be called “Snow” correctly, for it was Robb’s blessed name for Jon. Gutting the animal right there and leaving it’s unnecessary parts behind and keeping its head, Robb kept what he could in his pack.  


                “Well done, my Lord,” Ser Rodrik said. “A quick find. If speed mattered in your competition, you’d have won for sure.”  


                “Certainly,” Robb agreed, “But now the hunt is already over. I must enjoy the forest while I still can.”  


                “Your hunt is over,” Jon said. “Our hunt is only beginning.” The boys helped Robb out with disposing of the carcass and trekked away lest a predator stumbles upon them while smelling poignant guts.  


                A few hundred yards away was Robb’s early success, as they now stood atop a slight hill surrounded by trees, with a clearing at the base of both short hills. Behind the hill, there was a brook, with high grass all around. Game trails cleared small pathways from the creek to the edge of the clearing which fed back into a thicker forest. Jon and Torrhen both watched the back side of the hill into the clearing, each with their own half. Rodrik spotted down the area they had previously come from. Jon and Torrhen were further blessed with the wind still against them compared to Rodrik’s hiking musk traveling to ward off all animals.  


                Hours passed, and soon it was close to lunch. The boys regathered at Rodrik’s position, ready to gorge on bread made when they awoke early for their journey. It was no longer fresh, but on any empty stomach it satisfied.  


                "I don’t know how we haven’t seen anything yet, Jon,” Torrhen puzzled. “You would think we could see one out of range coming for a drink.”  


                “It’s a shame,” Jon admitted. “How can I win if there’s nothing out there? If it weren’t for Robb, I’d think deer were as real snarks and grumkins.” Rodrik rustled for his bow.  


                “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about that or Robb winning the day,” Rodrik snorted. Walking straight towards them was an enormous buck, waving through the smaller clearing Robb took his in. His antlers were siege weapons, capable of busting down the gates of Winterfell. At least five tines were on each side, with twenty points. “That’s the damn largest buck I’ve ever seen here.” Rodrik’s shot was readied. The Buck continued his path straightforward.  


                “Come on,” Robb whispered. “Turn. Show him your broadside.” The buck stopped well within range and slowly turned, cautiously watching, as if grasping the air’s scent.  


                “Perfect,” Ser Rodrik determined. The string smacked his arm as the arrow soared towards its target. Faster than lightning instinctual reflexes pulled something deep within the deer, who had jumped forward simultaneously as the arrow released from the bow. The arrow whiffed behind the deer’s anxious first stride, cutting through several blades of grass like a stainless blade. “Seven Hells.”  


                “Do the old gods have seven hells?” Jon jested.  


                “They do not,” Robb laughed. “But after that luck, it certainly feels like they do.”  


                “As a miracle comes for me, so it does go against me,” Ser Rodrik lamented.  


                “The deer moved exactly when you had shot quick enough not even to graze him,” Jon said. “I’ve never seen such bad lack.”  


                “Torrhen could have killed a doe once with a blade,” Robb said. “Certainly we can see the exact opposite?” Jon nodded in agreement. For every stroke of luck, someone somewhere probably has equally bad luck.  


                “I’m surprised there’s been no comment from Torren,” Rodrik pondered as he sat back down. Torrhen was still standing up, taking in the events.  


                “It’s like he’s in awe,” Robb described.  


                “How are you not in awe?” Torrhen asked. “If that happened a thousand times, he will at least hit the deer all but a couple.” Together they all sat once more, taking in bread before the next stage of their hunt.  


                Jon and Torrhen stayed in their spots, overlooking the clearing. It was a wondrous sight, even with the sun hiding amidst the clouds above. Wilderness expanded before him; it was wild, untamed land ready to be explored. The smooth flow of the stream poured on the bed’s rocks, bubbling back up as it went further south. Few birds chirped in the distance, thankfully none nearby alerting others to their presence. The world was at peace. For a moment, Jon felt like he could close his eyes as he sat beneath a tree, taking it all in.  


                “Jon,” Torrhen whispered. “Jon,” he repeated, shaking him. Jon opened his eyes. Torrhen was crouching over him. “How long have you been asleep?”  


                “I fell asleep?” Jon asked. “Aye, I guess I did.”  


                “Grab your bow,” Torrhen commanded quietly. “That enormous buck Rodrik missed has been standing at the stream for a couple of minutes now.” Jon rustled up, grabbing his bow. Before him, in the same scene as before he shut his eyes, was now a magnificent creature. His glory for all the world to see, with his antlers resembling a crown for him to be considered the king of the forest. He stood perfectly still.  


                “Why didn’t you take him?” Jon asked. “You saw him.”  


                “He’s right where you have been looking,” Torrhen said. “I figured you saw him and were waiting to show his broadside.” Lining the air on his bow, pulling back the string, Jon looked down sight, waiting for the creature to turn, but it never did. It never moved.  


                “I need to get closer,” Jon said, moving parallel with the stream a good hundred yards behind the deer, inching closer until he was within range. The high grass covered the buck’s chest, making a clear shot to the lungs or heart impossible. Each step Jon took to get closer felt like the Buck would prance away, gracefully dodging another shot like Rodrik’s. Soon, the distance closed was within the range of the buck’s charge. If he missed and pissed the deer off, it could be his life, but something was off. Whatever he did, it felt like he was unseen. The deer quietly stood still, gazing at the game trail he came from, frozen in time. Readying his bow, Jon fired fearlessly expecting the Buck to react, but the reaction never came. At least, running away or charging at Jon wasn’t the reaction, for the buck keeled over and fell to the ground instantly as if the creature was already dead.  


                “You got him,” Torrhen cheered, rushing over. Robb and Rodrik heard and seemed to be shortly behind.  


                “It seems you won this day, Snow,” Robb said.  


                “Torrhen and Rodrik haven’t gotten anything yet,” Jon assured. “I haven’t won.”  


                “You were asleep a while, Jon,” Torrhen responded. “It’s nearly dusk. We don’t have much time left. We don’t want to be here with venison in our packs at night.” Pride swelled in Jon’s heart. He had won. Winning wasn’t like he thought it would be, since Torrhen spotted the Buck and woke him up, yet victory was as delicious as the venison would be.  


                “He’s right,” Rodrik said. “As soon as you boys gut and pack the Buck, we’re heading home.” Jon understood. Not long before the hide was taken off, the excellent cuts stripped with a clean knife, and the head removed as a prize had the sky settled to a faint orange behind the clouds.  


                Walking back to camp wasn’t quick and near the distance being closed light thumps tapped on the ground like a group of wrestling squirrels fighting over acorns behind thick brush. Robb and Ser Rodrik kept moving on, but Torrhen stayed behind, hesitating at the bushes.  


                “I need to see what’s behind here,” Torrhen said.  


                “It’s probably some squirrels or something,” Jon responded. “Let’s hurry. The sun’s nearly down. We need to get back to Winterfell.”  


                “No,” Torrhen said. “You can catch up with the others. There is something I must do.” There were moments as if for no reason, Torrhen acted haunted. His face was stern, with a voice slightly thicker than usual, a furrowed brow, and a tense stance. Jon had moments too when people brought up his mother, and he grew serious in heart, downcast in spirit. Being called a bastard, for all its pain and frustration, paled in comparison to not even knowing who birthed him. The surname Snow latched on to him, and it hurt him daily; he could still take a jest from Robb, brush off the insults of Theon, and even take Lady Stark’s angry looks and while those did hurt, something felt different than when his mother was brought up. The treatment of a bastard felt like sword fighting, where he would end up with bruises, cuts, scrapes, or worse until he was skilled enough to defend himself. His mother was the soreness after sword fighting, an ache no one saw everyone expected him to shake off until he grew so used to it he failed to realize what was there. He always wondered if Torrhen felt something similar if that was why his moments occurred.  


                “I’ll wait for you here then,” Jon said. “It’s not safe by yourself.”  


                “Catch up with the others and leave without me,” Torrhen commanded. “I’ll be back at Winterfell before morning.” He began crawling in the brush on his hands and knees, leaving his bow and arrows behind.  


                “We can’t leave without you,” Jon said. “You’re being a fool.”  


                “I am a fool,” Torrhen assured. “But I’m four and ten and nearly a man. I don’t need to be coddled.”  


                “Why are you acting strange?” Jon asked angrily.  


                “Leave,” Torrhen demanded. Jon wanted to punch him, but with his last comment, he was finally out of sight. With a pack of venison on his back, there was no chance he could get through the brush. Fine, Jon thought. He picked up Torrhen’s bow and arrows and left, meeting up with Robb and Ser Rodrik quick enough.  


                “Took you long enough,” Robb said. “Where’s Torrhen?”  


                “He crawled through thick brush and refused to leave,” Jon exclaimed. “He’s being a dick. Told us to leave without him, that he’s a man now and can do what he wishes. He said he’d be back by Winterfell in the morning.”  


                “That’s all there is to it then,” Ser Rodrik said. “Let’s start back to Winterfell before the meat rots.”  


                “We’re not going to find him?” Jon fumed. It felt like everyone was unreasonable.  


                “It’s dark,” Ser Rodrik stated. “We can’t wait forever. Lady Stark will kill us if the young Lord stays out here. And if Torrhen won’t listen to you, he won’t listen to us.”  


                “What do you mean?” Jon asked. “Robb is his future Lord. You’re his teacher.”  


                “Aye,” Robb agreed. “I’d name him a good friend myself, but he values your opinion more than anyone if I’m his lord then you’re his king. Besides, he never has broken a promise, no matter how small. If he says he will be back to Winterfell before morning, then he will be.”  


                “Forgive me, Robb, but this seems ridiculous,” Jon said.  


                “That’s because it is,” Ser Rodrik said, “But it’s something ridiculous we have no control over. When he gets back to Winterfell, Lord Stark will give him an earful. If Jon’s a king, then Lord Stark is a god.” Reluctantly, Jon rode with them beneath the starry night. Darkness covered the land. It was dangerous to be riding in the countryside late. Jon had no idea where they were going. If not for Ser Rodrik, they’d be lost and have to make camp.  


                Back at Winterfell, the deer parts were stored and to be given to the butcher at the crack of dawn. Most of the castle was asleep, but Lord Stark was awake and waiting for the party. His face long, staring down the castle walls.  


                “You finally return,” Lord Father said. “Did you bring us our dinner for tomorrow?”  


                “Aye, Father,” Robb said. “Jon took quite the prize too.”  


                “Truly?” Father asked.  


                “Aye, my Lord,” Ser Rodrik promised. “It was the biggest buck I’ve ever seen.” Father smiled briefly.  


                “Good work, Jon,” Father said. “I may not care for hunting as much as other lords, but taking a great beast is always an accomplishment.”  


                “Thank you, Father,” Jon said. “Although Torrhen didn’t come back with us.”  


                “I know,” Father said. “He mentioned to me yesterday he’d be coming back before morning.” Jon’s thoughts swirled in his head. He felt like he no longer understood what was going on. “It seems he didn’t let you know until it happened. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. For now, you boys should get cleaned up. You smell of deer blood.”  


                Long after the bath, Jon lay awake staring at the ceiling. Something felt off about today, and he hated that he didn’t understand this unruly knot in his stomach. Uncertain, Jon rose to his room’s window and stared in the pitch black northern sky. Few stars could be seen above Winterfell in the current hour, and most hours for that matter, for some clouds which grey the sky also hide the stars. Without Rodrik, Jon knew he and Robb couldn’t have made it back to Winterfell.  
Gazing at the courtyard beneath, the guards began moving, the gate opening, and a rider in the night arrived on horseback in Winterfell’s courtyard. He couldn’t make any details, but he knew it was Torrhen and rushed down to the castle’s entrance through the halls. Lord Father was already there, sitting in the same spot in the castle’s main hall as he did earlier. Hesitant, Jon stayed in the shadows of the side-hall out of sight.  


                “Welcome back, Torrhen,” Father said tiredly. The figure from earlier stepped into the hall, taking off his cloak. “I trust your excursion went as planned.”  


                “It did, Lord Stark,” Torrhen said. “I dreamt, and the dream came true,” Jon recalled something like this before, in the wild stories old nan would tell them. Tales of greenseers, people who could dream of the future.  


                “What did you bring back with you?” Father asked wearily. Torrhen reached to open his bag, lifting open the top and four small balls of fur poured out.  


                “Wolf pups,” Torrhen said. “Not direwolves, but wolves none the less.”  


                “What are their names?” a friendly high pitched voice spoke up, right beside Jon. It was Arya. He hadn’t noticed her. They were caught. She ran up to the pups to begin playing with them.  


                “What are you two doing up?” Father sighed. “You should be in bed. It’s bad enough Torrhen is up.”  


                “I couldn’t sleep,” Jon said. Father did a slow half-nod. “Torrhen, why didn’t you tell me what you were doing? I could have helped.”  


                “I needed to know I didn’t need help, Jon,” Torrhen said. “Sorry I was mean. I didn’t wish to be, but I knew you wouldn’t understand. There are some things you have to do on your own.” Part of sickening feeling left, but he still felt hurt. Torrhen wasn’t the best talker, and Jon had to accept that. He knew at Torrhen’s core, and he didn’t intend to cause Jon distress.  


                “It’s alright,” Jon said unsurely. He didn’t understand, but he supposed it wasn’t the time. Torrhen apologized as well, which mattered far more to him than trying to understand the action itself. An explanation would come soon enough.  


                “What are their names?” Arya repeated herself. She was pouting slightly from being ignored yet too excited at the pups before her to sound angry. “Can we keep them?” A wolf was no dog. Father would never agree.  


                “Torrhen will raise them,” Father said, picking up Arya. “It’s time for bed.”  


                “Forgive me, Lord Stark,” Torrhen said. “I have decided on the names, Arya.” He gathered the pups in his arms. “The first is a boy, Onyx.” He was the largest of the pups, with black and grey fur and a snow-white underbelly. He had multi-colored eyes, one like Torrhen’s own blue eyes and another brown like the dirt. “Then there’s a girl, Shadow.” He gestured to a pup thinner than the rest with a longer frame. Her fur was pitch black with bits of brown. Her underbelly was lighter than the rest of her coat, like her siblings, but resembled charcoal. Both of her eyes resembled Torrhen’s own. “Then there’s a boy, Griffin.” His fur was a tough grey with bits of brown, with a middle-sized frame and a shorter snout. His stomach was a lighter shade of grey, and he had brown eyes. His tail puffed at the end into the shape of a mace. “And lastly, there’s Lycan.” His fur was black with bits of gray, with a brown cloud for an underbelly, a longer snout, and brown eyes.  


                “I want to play with them more,” Arya groaned.  


                “Maybe tomorrow, little wolf,” Father said. He carried Arya to bed, with her quickly resting her head on his shoulder.  


                “I am sorry, Jon,” Torrhen said. “I don’t always know how to say something.” Jon nodded in understanding. He wished to hear more about the dream, but being awake for too long has taken a toll on him. Making his way towards the hall, he could barely keep his eyes open.  


                “Goodnight,” Torrhen said. Jon looked back to respond, and he caught Torrhen smiling down at his pups.


	4. Ser Marlon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two monsters of magical origin appear. One nightmare fights a band of knights, the other displays itself at court.

Ser Marlon

 

                Ser Marlon Manderly was horrified, not at the loss of most of his squad of knights and their squires. The beast which tore them apart like a raven’s message with its claws, shredding through them like the knife of a master butcher with its sword-like teeth, brutishly slaughtering the men with little effort through sheer force of its tail, and playfully tossing men off the mountainside is what terrified him to his bones. It flew above, swooping below to grab another knight to eliminate, landing finally, opening itself the few remaining men to see. Well over ten feet in length, its jaw unhinged several times wider than its own head to show its blood covered fangs. On its side were leathery wings colored like a faded violet, appearing as amethysts in the brief moments the sun glistened through the clouds off the rest of its scales. Along its back are spikes leading onto a tail so purple it was nearly black. Its legs helped it stand, with long talons capable of running a man through.  


                Less than a handful of knights and their squires remained. A great deal of them, upon seeing the creature, commanded their squires to leave. The fear of running away caught the eye of the beast, making those who ran the first of its prey. He was thankful those who remained were amongst the most experienced of the knights, veterans from the war against the tyranny of the Mad King, yet they had brought twenty and three knights and the squires of those old enough to train with the sword, wishing to watch each the ser who slays the beast: barely under forty men total. Now, he could only count eight, three of them squires. Some might be still alive, crushed or bleeding out. Most had limbs torn off, impaled, or dropped off the mountainside. While Ser Marlon knew the fall could be survived, as they fought on the side of a mountain which was closer to a tall hill in height, it was incredibly unlikely.  


                Quite some time was taken to locate the beast. It has been attacking anyone who ventures outside of the city of White Harbor for over three moons. No one believed reports of farmers being carried off into the distance by a winged beast resembling a dragon. The concept of a dragon attacking the North was ridiculous. Not until after a moon of rumors did a supply caravan from Winterfell to White Harbor disappear that his cousin Wyman take note. Accompanying the convoy was Bryan Snow, his squire, with all three of his wolves, managed to survive the attack, although one wolf passed. That’s the second wolf the boy had lost. The beast killed everyone else, man and horse alike, and feasted upon them. His Lord Cousin had to rely on rumors, but nearly every scout his commanders sent out went missing. It wasn’t until a whole village disappeared two weeks ago they grasped where it made its nest. The nest, while on the side of a mountain, had a few sparse trees surrounding a combination of large branches sown together to form an enormous birds nest.  


                In the meantime, maester Theomore of White Harbor sent ravens to the Citadel about what kind of creature it could be. Ser Marlon wasn’t aware of all details exchanged, but they concluded it was impossible for the beast to be a dragon since the last dragon died years ago, basing it on the lack of rumors about breathing fire. Maester Theomore only knew of a few other dragon-like creatures he referred to as draconids, or dragonkind, from stories. Ice dragons, Sea dragons, and firewyrms, but they all utilize magic and are mythological in nature. If something amongst them appeared, the whole world would know it. Theomore suggested it could be a Wyvern, as they aren’t known to have any special magical powers, but it would be impossible since they are only known to live in Sothoryos. To appear in Westeros, let alone the North, was a fool’s suggestion, yet he was more accurate than he thought himself. The beast breathed no ice nor fire, it lived in the mountains and hunted sparse the creatures below. By all accounts, Ser Marlon had no clue what this beast was, but the only conclusion which makes sense to him is a dragon-like monster from tales such as a Wyvern.  


                The Wyvern’s scales were dense, as not an arrow could pierce through it. When the absurdity bit into one knight, another would strike at its chest, legs, or neck and shrug off the attacks as worthless pokes. He thought of retreating, but it would only antagonize it more as the squires did. Fighting every man for himself would just get themselves killed.  


                Now, the flameless dragon landed before Ser Marlon, staring at him. Its eyes were full of deep hunger. Nothing about the creature showed an empty stomach, it barely touched its dead prey, yet it wanted Ser Marlon. Lowering its head, the monster readied and threw itself at him. He had witnessed the death of thirty some men, but not until the beast rushed towards him did he genuinely feel terror. Dismissing his fear as pointless, he raised his shield and braced for impact. His body felt weightless for a second, before slamming against a tree. Moments went by, and he felt no new pains. Looking past his shield revealed the wyvern waiting patiently. He felt its foul breath drown his nostrils while caressing his face.  


                The wyvern shrieked, raising its head to turn at the mysterious cause. Ser Marlon forced himself to his feet, readying his shield, but now the beast had turned its entire body. The place where its tail had been was now missing. In front of the shrieker was Bryan Snow, sword drawn, tail at his feet. For only a second the beast hesitated, the other four knights struck coordinated blows at its wings, tearing through the amethyst leather, attacking it in the only ways they hadn’t tried yet. It moved the stub on its back to strike with its non-existent tail, then deciding upon bashing its skull against Bryan. He flashed his sword in brilliant swiftness to foolishly brace the blow. While the Wyvern took off into the sky above, Ser Marlon rushed to his squire.  


                “Shit,” Bryan said. The sword was shattered from its skull, and a piece logged in to his side. “I didn’t think I’d stab myself.”  


                “Blocking with a sword can’t help if it rams it into you,” Ser Marlon said.  


                “I realize that now,” Bryan chuckled, attempting to force himself up.  


                “Don’t be a fool,” Ser Marlon said. “It’s going to be back in a second.”  


                “I refuse to do nothing, Ser Marlon,” Bryan determined. “As long as the blade doesn’t come out, I can’t bleed to death yet.” He forced himself to stand on two feet. The boy has grown enormous at an early age, around six and a half feet tall, nearly a head taller than Ser Marlon himself, but the boy was still a boy, and a squire was still a squire.  


                “Seven hells,” Ser Marlon said. “You’re still bleeding.”  


                “I’ll survive,” Bryan said. “Our priority is the Wyvern.”  


                “It’s coming,” a knight said.  


                “It’s flying strange,” Bryan groaned. The monster was poorly circling above, each shape different from the next.  


                The wyvern roared, crashing down onto its nest. The cuts on its wings had grown, the force of the wind opening each ripple.  


                “Quick, attack while it’s injured,” Ser Marlon ordered. Before he could finish his thought, the wyvern lunged toward one of his knights, crunching down with its teeth clean through, tearing out a chunk of his side and tossing him. Once again, its gaze turned toward Ser Marlon.  


                One of his remaining knights, Ser Willem, shot an arrow at one of the beast's eyes, successfully puncturing through the small blob of mass. Still, the wyvern roared back and charged. It moved slower, much slower. With a moment to run, Ser Marlon dove to his side. The wyvern slammed its body against a tree. For a moment it was dazed, yet it quickly reacted with its wing to punch Ser Marlon as he attempted to compose himself. The wing stopped short, the wyvern let out a frightened howl and began to rage back and forth before slamming its head onto the tree, denting the trunk. It was acting insane.  


                “Run your blade through its eye,” Bryan commanded.  


                Ser Marlon grabbed his sword, with the engravings of a merman on the hilt, and ran with all his might. During a passing second of its scared insanity, it lowered its head, and Ser Marlon thrust his blade through its other eye. He felt himself hit a wall behind the eye, but grasping it with his full weight, he plunged until the sword was missing. With the last shriek, the beast threw Ser Marlon back onto the ground, but the mortal wound was made, and the wyvern was slain.  


                All the knights and squires sat down in ease, save Bryan Snow who was lying down with blood coming through his light armor.  


                “Good thinking, Snow,” Ser Marlon thanked, walking over. “But it’s not your job to give me commands. If I hadn’t seen the monster kill so many with my own eyes, I’d punish you for telling your knight what to do.” Bryan nodded. The blade wasn’t too deep in, and he didn’t know of such a cut killing a man, but he could not rush into this when it’s been a couple of minutes. They had some supplies, but most of the horses fled with them on their backs. He undressed a dead squire nearby, grabbing his cloak. “Are you strong enough to roll over and hold this to your side?”  


                “Yes,” Bryan choked. Ser Marlon pulled out the blade as gently as he could and felt slight worry upon seeing the blade shard was a bit longer than he imagined and began lifting the bit of armor, so the wound was visible. The crimson started staining the ground, but together they held the large cloth against Bryan’s side. If he were lucky, he’d stop bleeding after some time.  


                “Ser Willem,” Ser Marlon said, “and everyone, thank you for helping Lord Wyman stop this pestilence. You’ll all be rewarded well. For now, search for the horses so we can get out of here.” The men dispersed down the short mountainside.  


                “I think I’ve stopped the major bleeding,” Bryan said after a few minutes. “Ser Marlon, would you grab me something to tie around my waist.” Reaching over for another amongst the dead, he grabs a cloak with the embroidery of a Merman from a proud but dead knight serving house Manderly.  


                “Take this,” Ser Marlon commanded. Wrapping the heavy cloak's fabric around himself will help prevent further bleeding until White Harbor.  


                “I’ll probably borrow a few more for the road,” Bryan Snow suggested. Willfully, he stood up.  


                “You’re damn lucky; you know that?” Ser Marlon asked. Bryan nodded. His luck was acknowledged, but the lack of response didn’t sit well with Ser Marlon. For the past couple years Bryan Snow has been an extraordinarily cautious and quiet individual, yet there are moments of brash recklessness that feel like his personality flipped like a coin. A few moons ago he disguised himself in a tourney of White Harbor to participate, luckily getting caught before his first tilt as he was set to square off with Ser Marlon. When he brought wolves to White Harbor a while back, the court felt reasonably unsettled, but he demanded of Lord Wyman to let it be, gently threatening to leave White Harbor on his own volition and taking advantage of his cousin’s sense of responsibility. Worse is that one of the wolves died as a pup. Now that another died to the Wyvern, his determination seems fruitless. This week he wouldn’t stop pestering Ser Marlon to take him to fight the monster he barely survived previously. The boy had moments of brilliance overshadowed by youthful folly.  


                Not long passed before the remnants of the troop returned with the horses. With a carriage prepared, several horses would carry the dead wyvern back to White Harbor. Sore and bruised all over, the ride back was punishing. By night of the second day, they had finished their journey. Maester Theomore took care of Bryan, and in a few days, he was able to move freely albeit very bruised. Luckily, the blade missed anything vital. His Lord cousin, after learning of the events in extensive detail, decided to throw a feast for all his vassals in two weeks. Ser Marlon wondered why a feast would be thrown for vassals and not the remaining knights, granted they all received a generous reward. Lord Wyman decision was typical, as he threw banquets as often as he could. Still, it felt uneasy.  


                On the thirteenth night, Lord Wyman summoned Ser Marlon to his room. He was dressed in a long turquoise gown ready to sleep, lady wife already resting, but his eyes were sharp as valyrian steel.  


                “It’s time talk about the feast tomorrow,” Wyman stated. “I’ll cut this short. We’re going to try to get Lord Ashwood shitfaced to admit to plotting house Sterling’s murder.”  


                “Why are we getting justice now?” Ser Marlon asked. “It’s been years, and we’ve known for years. They’re the only ones who make sense.”  
“Aye,” Wyman agreed. “Recently, Lord Stark has begun to ask about them in raven’s letters. Upon hearing some details, he’s become convinced of what’s likely to be true.”  
“Lord Stark wishes to take action?” Ser Marlon questioned. “When there’s no proof but speculation?”  


                “He’s an honorable man,” Wyman said. “But no, he will not take action. However, I’m certain he thinks less of me, and at least partially questions my loyalty. If we do not take action, our relationships will be strained needlessly. He must think I’m either incompetent to let this happen underneath me or dishonorable to abstain from punishing murder.”  


                “Why wait until now to tell me, cousin?” Ser Marlon asked.  


                “I care for you, cousin,” Wyman assured. “I wish you not to be involved. But tell the guards of the castle not to restrain Lord Ashwood if he behaves poorly. You’d refuse to let him speak ill, so you’d shut him up before he confessed. It is a risk I cannot take when the odds of success are low already.” Ser Marlon nodded. He didn’t appreciate mischief and intrigue, although he respected his cousin’s understanding of the situation. A healthy relationship with House Stark was more important than any silver or promise to the Seven house Ashwood gave. “The command must be careful and as close to the feast’s start as possible. If we do anything to give warning, Lord Ashwood or our other vassals may be on guard and untrusting towards us.”  


                “Forgive me, my lord, but must we do this tomorrow?” Ser Marlon questioned. “We have many chances as long as he lives.”  
“You’re correct,” Wyman agreed. “But the longer there is a distance between house Stark and us, the worse the situation will be.” He paused. Another scheme lay in his gaze.  


                “Why must you have a good relationship with house Stark immediately, cousin?” Ser Marlon asked.  


                “My sons,” Wyman hesitated. “Wendel has been married a while with no healthy child in sight. Wylis has given me two wonderful granddaughters, besides us four there are no males to lead the house. It’s quite possible whoever marries Wynafryd or Wylla will become the future of our house. It’s not particularly common, but they’ll need to marry matrilineally, similar to those in Dorne. The most assured way for a child to carry on their mother’s name is for the father to be a bastard.” Wyman gestured with hands and lifted his brow, trying to pull the rest of the thought from Ser Marlon’s mind.  


                “You wish to marry one of them to Jon Snow,” Ser Marlon realized.  


                “He’s the only male bastard who matters,” Lord Wyman elaborated. “Marrying Wynafryd, my eldest granddaughter, to a Stark bastard will not only carry on our line but also assure good relationships until their child passes White Harbor on to their sons as well as take the burden of a bastard off Lord and Lady Stark’s hands.”  


                “Why not Bryan Snow?” Ser Marlon suggested. “He has Stark blood, seems to be liked by Lord Stark, and he is friends with Robb Stark.”  


                “He’s only a quarter of a wolf,” Wyman explained. “The Starks may care for him, but his blood would carry no weight into his children, nor would any other lord care.”  


                “You’ve thought this through, my lord,” Ser Marlon said. He admired his cousin, always thinking as often as he was engorging himself. Wyman was as clever as he was large, although he showed one quality far more than another. Yet he held no shame for his size and carried himself with the weight of a proper Lord. “Is there anything else?”  


                “Yes, cousin,” Wyman promised. “I didn’t wish to get you involved, but there’s a glaring hole. If Ashwood confesses, young Bryan will kill him. You must stop that.” Ser Marlon agreed to the task, heading off to bed. Still, a knot in his stomach felt uneasy and unnecessary about the feast. An urgency was felt in his cousin’s words as if there was no other day but tomorrow to succeed. His cousin was full of thoughts, and if he put his mind to it whatever his method was would work. The slightest sense of despair had fallen on Ser Marlon’s heart.  


                On the morrow, the feast started with divine grace. Lord Wyman toasted to the defeat of the Wyvern, showing off its skull in the main hall at the feet of his seat. Ser Marlon noticed all the lords walking the halls, eyeing each with caution. He had ordered for the guards to not deal with any drunkards unless otherwise commanded, letting the party take its natural course. Bryan was asked by Ser Marlon to stay by his side as to not offend any of the more honorable guests, which he complied to. Nonetheless, the knot persisted.  


                When the food came, Ser Marlon and Bryan each took a portion out of a roasted pig. Luckily for Bryan, his piece was well-cooked. Ser Marlon’s cut barely felt warm. At least it wasn’t poultry. The day went into the night. All around everyone was merry, with a drink in their hand and enjoying conversation with another. Stories were shared. Nearly every knight wished to hear how Ser Marlon slew the Wyvern terrorizing the surrounding area. The same tale was told in tolerated excitement. When Lord Ashwood’s sons came over, he noticed Bryan leave but said nothing. A story of sorrows spoken as a sober soldier to the table’s sultry or stoic sojourners secured their stares while his cousin schemed. Late into the feast, long after Ashwood sons left, Ser Marlon had told his tale to everyone. Many were merry. Lord Ashwood seemed to be quite drunk, slurring his words too far. Drunk enough to barely understand what he said, but still clear to the ears of his cousin. He needed to find his squire.  
Weaving through the halls, Ser Marlon came upon a scene. Young Wylla was with amidst a group of girls gossiping, chatting, or whatever they do. Bryan was attempting to break into the group. Their glares were as fierce as any noble lady.  


                “I mean it Wylla,” Bryan struggling slurred. “I’ll wed you.” Ser Marlon had stumbled into more trouble than the boy was worth.  


                “I know you mean it,” Wylla said curtly, not even looking his way. “It’s not proper.”  


                “You’re the only girl who speaks to me,” Bryan begged. Wylla looked up; her face was full of discomfort.  


                “You are related to Lord Stark,” Wylla paused.  


                “What does that matter?” Bryan inquired. “Your voice is kind, your eyes fierce with honor. You’re wonderful.” Ser Marlon finally felt the need to step in, but a young Ashwood lady named Jocelynn stepped forward, eyeing the knight out of the corner of her eye.  


                “She’s not old enough to wed,” Jocelynn declared. “You are drunk and improper towards your host’s beloved granddaughter. And you’re a bastard who not only insults those who have taken you in, but your mere existence insults my families’ house. Your father spent all your fortune on whores, and that’s all you are, the son of a whore.”  


                “My mother was a whore?” Bryan asked. No one knew what his mother did. According to his father Brandon, his mother was a peasant wench, but the likelihood of her being a whore was high. Poor bastard, but he is a smart lad. He must have realized this before.  


                “Aye, your mother was a whore,” a rough voice said. Out from behind Ser Marlon was another voice, quietly listening while he painfully watched. The voice came from Robett Ashwood, the heir of the house and father to Lady Jocelynn. “Lady Barbara mentioned it several times in letters to us. Now leave, bastard.” Bryan stood his ground but did not utter a word. “You’re the son of a whore. The only thing of value your family gave was silver beneath the castle. Even the silver sword was worthless with its dull edge. It couldn’t cut cheese let alone a man. Worst of all, you share the same blood as your father who was dumb enough to accept you into his life.”  


                With a lone drink, Bryan quaffed it and moved away without saying a word, walking upon Ser Marlon to witness the whole thing. His eyes were heavy, full of grief. Their words were like daggers.  


                “He’s typically polite,” Wylla apologized. “I’m sorry.”  


                “It’s not your fault,” Jocelynn assured. “He’s a bastard misbehaving to his lord’s granddaughter. He should be kicked out of the feast. His actions against you are a travesty.” She is authoritative for a noble girl, her voice like the musings of a bard who says too much to everyone they meet.  


                “It matters not,” Wylla said. “I’d never wed him. It troubles you all more than me to bear witness to the event.” She is kind to forgive him quickly, but those words would hurt a lad most of all. The boy left, briskly making his way outside. Attempting to look for the boy, he quickly lost sight after following him. For now, the boy was gone. He was the least of their worries. Sighing a breath of relief, Ser Marlon walked back towards his cousin.  


                Only a single, thick, other-like voice shouted in the main hall. Everyone else was dead quiet. The large Duncan Ashwood had brandished the house Sterling sword. His face was rosy with rage and alcohol, fat lips screaming profanities. Juices from whatever pork cutlets he ate rolled down his thin beard.  


                “You’re right, Lord Manderly,” Duncan exclaimed. “I planned the whole thing. I murdered them for the silver, both my daughter and her husband. If not for some freak accident, Torrhen would have been murdered too.” He noticed Duncan’s heavy arms, barely able to hold the sword.  


                “Father, what are you saying?” Robett chimed in. “You’ve had too much wine.” He moved in to ease his father down. Foolish to resist, he’s already been caught. Ser Marlon looked around to eye his fellow soldiers, but none were around. Not a single guard or knight except the lords here. He reached for his own blade, but it had disappeared. Had the blade grown a mind of its own to walk away? The knot in his stomach began to swell.  


                Duncan cleaved into his own son’s waist. Robett’s blood washed the blade. Yanking the blade, guts poured out onto the floor. A slight piss and shit scent sprung up amongst the dying feast. The sword dripped crimson stains on the floor coverings. The lords’ and ladies’ silence loomed over the hall, terror on their faces.  


                “I did it, and my children helped me do it!” Duncan declared. “We’re all guilty of murder! The Seven have punished us with this blade!”  


                “Father!” the second son, Yoren Ashwood, shouted. “Why would you do that to Robett?” Wielding his sword, he approached his father cautiously. His stance sought to disarm him. Duncan parried and struck through his second son. Blood splattered. The situation had turned into a nightmare for the house.  


                “The Sterling sword is cursed,” Duncan screamed. “It curses the wielder, and all they care for shall lie dead. This sword killed Brandon Sterling and his family, and now my family will die too.” The blade destroyed castle Sterling with a mighty curse. Great pillars of ice striking at a castle from the gods? Which of the seven have shown might over ice before? Not that they couldn’t, they only hadn’t.  


                “We should sit down and talk about this, Lord Ashwood,” Wyman suggested.  


                “No more talking or scheming,” Lord Duncan demanded. “The blade wields its own will.” Ser Marlon crept closer. He must do something, even if it risks his life. When his lord is threatened, nothing will get in his way. If he is close enough, the sword will mean little. The slashing of air through hall caught Ser Marlon off-guard. A moment before he would have leaped, Lord Ashwood turned his blade to an inch before Marlon’s neck. The ability to swing with force quick enough to reach the spot and enough strength to stop before cutting into his neck was supernatural.  


                “Sterling silver will kill every guilty man in this room,” Lord Duncan raged. Lowering his blade, he swung forward to strike. Ser Marlon felt the knot burst, and he wished to vomit. The sensation horrified him. He was going to die by a fat, nobody lord’s hand who murdered his squire’s parents while he did nothing to avenge the boy he helped raise.  


                Steel clashed against steel. The echo bounced through the halls, between the sudden outburst of whispers. Parrying the blow was his squire. Ser Marlon had failed his lord. Either his squire would die, or Bryan would kill the lord.  


                “Wh-what?” Lord Duncan wondered, eyes growing wide. His entire body froze as his eyes reached his sons at his feet, full of terror at their lifeless eyes. “You!” Wrath rippled on his face towards Bryan Snow. “How dare you kill them! Murderer! All for a cursed sword!” Ducking beneath the interlocked blades, Ser Marlon tackled Duncan to the ground, disarming the man. He wouldn’t let Bryan take his first life before being a man.  


                “You’re a kinslayer,” Ser Marlon said. “Brandishing your sword against your liege lord is quite bold. Admitting to murdering Bryan’s father is dangerously bold. Striking down your sons at a feast before your liege lord is suicidal.” Ser Marlon grabbed Bryan’s sword. “My Lord, may I dispense the justice not only for my house, but for you, the King, and the rest of the realm?” To deny such an act swift and immediate justice would be foolish, but it was up a Lord to act, especially towards another Lord.  


                “What are you doing?” Lady Ashwood shouted. “He is drunk!” She made her presence known, stepping forward from the crowd. A hysterical look had settled on her face.  


                “He murdered your children,” Lord Wyman stated, sitting on his lord’s seat, the decision made. Ser Marlon readied. Duncan struggled, but others had held him still. Several guards had made their way back in to aid in the endeavor, each receiving deathly glares from every lord and lady in the castle.  


                “You’re right,” Lady Ashwood spoke solemnly. Duncan’s looked to the floor stained by his children.  


                “I demand a trial by combat!” Lord Ashwood demanded.  


                “You have already lost then, my Lord,” Ser Marlon affirmed. Lord Manderly gestured down with his hand. Ser Marlon rammed the sword down into Lord Duncan’s neck, cutting into his chest.  


                “I thank you, cousin,” Lord Wyman said nervously. “You and young Bryan both protected this hall from further bloodshed. However, is that sword truly cursed?” One of Robett’s sons came to take the Sterling blade, yet the moment it touched his hand he abandoned it, body slouching over. Not even answering Lord Wyman, the boy ran out of the hall. “Ser Marlon, could you examine this blade?”  


                Ser Marlon nodded; reaching out to touch the blade an overwhelming headache pierced into his skull as if all the knights of White Harbor thrust swords into his head. Another will was trying to overwrite his own as if he was fading into the background sleepily while drowning in excruciating pain. He could only wonder if this sensation was what it was like to bleed out, slowly dying while losing control of your body. Sounds of extreme frustration stretched out from his tongue, uncontrollably getting louder to nearly scream. The tip of the blade poised itself toward Lord Wyman. Summoning all of his might he let go and the other will left.  


                “Forgive me, my Lord,” Ser Marlon asked. The faces amidst the feast fearfully gawked while Lord Wyman’s own face grew slightly pale. “I’ve never felt anything like that. The blade is cursed.”  


                "Dispose of it,” Lord Wyman commanded. “I don’t care how.” Most lords and ladies had begun to clear the main hall, making their way to guest rooms of their liege. Servants began cleaning up the bodies. Several guards attempted to hold the sword only to shout like Duncan and Ser Marlon. “Seven hells! I want the blade gone from White Harbor!”  


                “Forgive me, my Lord,” Bryan Snow spoke up. “If I may, I’d like to take the blade for myself. It belonged to my father.”  


                “Don’t be rash, boy,” Ser Marlon commanded. Wyman shook his head at his foolhardy.  


                “The gods favor me,” Bryan stated. He picked up the sword, holding it with control, and carefully placed it in the leather sheath left behind. “I felt nothing.”  


                “Seven hells,” Ser Marlon shouted. “Don’t lie to us.”  


                “I’m fine, Ser Marlon,” Bryan said curtly. “Lord Manderly, I can wield this blade.” Ser Marlon extended his hand towards his squire. “Besides, if the blade kills me, I’m just a bastard, my Lord. What does it matter?” Wyman nodded knowingly.  


                “You may take your ancestral blade,” Wyman continued nervously. “But you are to leave White Harbor. That blade murdered three people today. By Ser Marlon’s and the guards’ brief encounter, the blade is cursed, but the lives it took seemed to be innocent as it forced absurd actions upon everyone.”  


                “I wouldn’t say they were innocent, my lord,” Bryan assured. “Almost everyone’s guilty of something. I reason I’m not affected because I have nothing to feel guilty about, and since I’m a bastard I have no family.”  


                “I understand,” Wyman said. Fear etched itself onto Lord Wyman’s voice. “I charge you to leave White Harbor to keep it safe. Please begone, Torrhen Snow.” Ser Marlon felt his world turn upside down. His cousin and lord was lesser than a bastard, whose words felt close to feigned kindness disguising commands. But speaking that name filled him with shame and guilt unbecoming of a knight, and his cousin seemed worse for wear. He was Torrhen Sterling, even if his surname remained Snow. Nothing could be done now, for the castle has long been demolished, nor did the boy indicate a desire for it any longer. “You are free to take a horse from our stables and leave as swiftly as you can. A blade cursed by the seven has no place in White Harbor, nor does the one who wields it.”  


                “I will do as you command, my lord,” Bryan promised. “Thank you. And don’t worry, my lord, for there is a rebirth in winter dreams.” And then the bastard left.


	5. Torrhen II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torrhen doesn't know what to feel after revenge, Ned does his best to handle the situation without harming his family, and Jon discovers a secret.

Torrhen II

 

                Finally, Torrhen had left New Castle and began his journey to Winterfell. Accompanying him was the horse he borrowed, whom White Harbor’s stablemaster named Steppes, and his two wolves Onyx and Shadow. Pride and satisfaction brimmed in his heart, yet his stomach still felt sour. He had reclaimed his Father’s sword, the only thing left of his family he knew of, and avenged both of his parents for the crimes committed against them, especially his mother.  


                Torrhen had dreamed many dreams. He dreamt of simple passing days, which consisted of Arya following him and Jon around doing nothing more than cracking a joke and playing tag or Ser Marlon teaching him to ride and don armor like a proper knight. Dreams of simple moments which came to pass shortly after, always aware of what was next. However, visions of significance loomed on his mind, possessing his thoughts ever towards times of terror, for him or others. He had dreamt of his revenge against House Ashwood not long after his parents were murdered, but even knowing his parents were maliciously killed he may have yielded his desire for vengeance. As Lord Stark told him, the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. It was just, but he ignored that command, only that once he prayed. For it was the dreams of the past which haunted him and demanded action.  


                Not long after Lord Stark had him begin to practice with the sword, a vision came to him in the night. The first time, it was an immense ash colored tree, the same poisoned by silver he foresaw in his youth, had a seed which fell to the ground. The seed grew into a gentle tree, flowing with the breeze, developing into a young tree capable of producing its own seed, when the vast tree overwhelmed its younger counterpart with the roots underneath it, choking the life out of the tree. However, the roots reached up and surrounded the younger tree, gripping every part of it, ripping off all the seeds, leaves, and all sorts of life to make it barren. The seeds which fell were poisoned, dead from lack of nutrients absorbed by the huge ashen tree. At first, Torrhen thought as his suspicions led, his mother killed by her own father. Part of him missed the innocence of when his dreams where vague in that manner, coming in symbols and metaphors as a fog that required caution and expertise to navigate through. Currently, concerning the past, his visions come as what indeed happened. His body remembered the nauseous sensation upon his mind recalling the sight which brought him hatred no person should have ever have to bear.  


                His mother hadn’t bled for the first time, not even a girl of ten when her father wandered into her room at night. The floor creaked ominously with her father’s fatty steps. She wondered aloud what her father was doing. At being questioned, he struck her. After that, her father began to touch her. She did something wrong he told her. This was her deserved punishment he would say. His mother was afraid, but she loved her father and did not make a sound. The one time visit occurred again the next month, the next month’s visits turned weekly occurrences, and by the time she was of age, the visits came as often her father whims. Her father began to receive offers of betrothment for mother’s beauty, but her father’s worst fear came to pass when she was with child. She would be worthless to offer if she was pregnant with a bastard. Her brothers carried gossip to counter any growing details. The worst beating came a few nights after. As far as Torrhen could tell, the punishment alone would have killed the baby, but she was also forced to drink moon tea. Rumors still spread, not of her bedding her father- or any family- but a lowly servant. The betrothal offers rescinded. Another year of torture passed before mother escaped her dungeon, wedded father, and met Torrhen. More than anything or anyone in the world, Torrhen hated Duncan Ashwood.  


                Torrhen wanted to make Duncan suffer. The enraged bloodlust against Torrhen when it was Duncan’s own hand which had cut down two of his sons pleased his heart, and the sense of shock written on his face with his impending execution was sweeter than honey. The denial was written on Duncan’s heart when his own wife denied her husband satisfied his mind. For that monster to be written in the histories and tales as a kinslayer and murderer cursed by the gods themselves gladdened his spirit. Still, it wasn’t enough. He wished to kill Duncan with his own hand, not only for pleasure’s sake but also for the purpose of what Lord Stark taught him. The more he thought about what he did, the more torn he felt inside. Duncan Ashwood, as well as his two sons, deserved to die, but Torrhen was not honorable about it. Revenge, not justice, fueled his desire. I see no monster; I see my nephew, Lord Stark would tell him after hearing of what he had done to Sterling castle. It wasn’t the visions or his power which made Torrhen a monster or not. Torrhen himself decided whether or not he was a monster. Even if he struggled with the words, he knew their veracity better than anyone.  


                On their own, a pack of wolves is among the apex predators. They are intelligent, clever, swift, and absolute monsters capable of hunting down nearly anything as a group. They are wary of outsiders, rarely revealing themselves to humans. The dreams guided Torrhen to a small litter of wolves, and his magic allowed him to befriend them. They were akin to large, bright, and well-trained dogs. Onyx and Shadow were companions to him. Onyx was built like a bear and had soft, thick fur. There was nothing like resting one’s head on his coat, far superior to any pillow. His speed always matched the others with little effort. When traveling, he led the group like a shepherd marching ahead. Easily distracted by new sights and smells, he would steer back on course the second Torrhen caught up. He always wheezed like an old man; not for lack of breath, he merely breathed with as much excitement as he lived with everything else. He cared little for being scratched, but he loved to wrestle. Despite his playful behavior, he never got into any trouble. Shadow was his opposite, as she was shorter on four legs but longer and thinner. Every movement was reserved and done in caution. Her run was closer to a stag’s prance: elegant, swift, and deathly quiet. She walked by Torrhen’s side every step of the day, never veering too far left or right. She loved being scratched under her chin or on her cheeks, often resting her head into his palms as he did so. She was gentle like his mother. Humorously, Shadow always found her way to get into trouble. Sansa thought she liked Shadow, for she carried herself in a queenly elegance until she tore her way through many dresses and part of her bed sheets. Torrhen never blamed her, as she was bored when he and Onyx weren’t around, although she was mischievous. Some of the ladies of Winterfell named her the Great Other, while the ladies of White Harbor called her the Stranger. Shadow had a gift for curiosity and destruction. Griffin and Lycan were outstanding too, but he foresaw the day they would pass. He loved all his wolves dearly, but he felt a connection, even if only by magic, stronger with Onyx and Shadow than he did with the other two. Although magic created opportunity unlike anything else, the ability to befriend four wolf pups and raise them to behave like any dog proved it was the man, not the magic, which determined the outcome.  


                Torrhen took revenge, but it doesn’t take away the pain of seeing his parents killed in front of him, nor did it end the suffering of his seeing mother repeatedly raped by her own father. It helps dull the pain, but the pain was still there. His parents remain gone, the castle which would be his was torn down. All he had left was the Sterling family bastard sword and his house’s words.  


                Even now, Torrhen’s family’s house words reminded him of a simple truth. Rebirth in winter dreams. A winter storm has entered into his heart, and through this pain, he would be reborn, whether it as a demon, king, soldier, wizard, or something else. The part which ached idolized stories of heroes and valor. He loved the stories of famous knights fighting for honor and who faithful towards the virtues of the seven. However, there few such knights, and he wouldn’t believe in gods which don’t exist, even if he wanted to. It made it all the harder when Ser Marlon attempted to stop Torrhen from leaving earlier in the day.  


                At the gates of New Castle, Ser Marlon had caught up and stopped Torrhen. “You’re a poor brat with nothing to his name,” Ser Marlon argued. “Stay here, become a knight, and make something of yourself. As a knight, however difficult, you might even get land.”  


                “Fuck your sers, Ser Marlon,” Torrhen determined. “I will not follow gods which do not exist.” For they did not. Everything was rooted in magic. He hasn’t dreamed everything, but there were bits and pieces of the earth’s history which many thought to be gods that are truthfully stemmed from magic and falsities. The seven were no different. They were legends made to affirm Hugor Star as the first Andal king of the promptly named kingdom of Andalos. Each aspect of the seven had its purpose, his favorite aspect being the mother, as it allowed him to take far more concubines than any other king Torrhen’s heard of to fulfill the promise of forty-four sons. It’s ironic though, Hugor and his stewards sought to make him a god amongst men to solidify his crown, but he never imagined the priests in his castle would ever genuinely believe the tales of the seven. Genuine faith was scary, as Hugor failed to understand. After his death, the faith had in-fighting and decided that Hugor was never God, merely chosen by God. And the next king would also be selected by the Seven Who Are One. Still, his sons were foolish enough to agree with the priests, and when the priest anointed the next king, the other forty-three did not press their claims to the throne. Most sons all only knew one woman as a wife, as they all felt pains from their father’s inability to stay true to their mother, which prompted the virtue of faithfulness towards taking one, and only one, spouse apart from the numerous exceptions added down later. The faith of the seven started as an arrogant man wishing to proclaim himself as a god, or as the chosen one of the gods, and he is now known as nothing more than the first prophet of the faith, a servant of ones who were far more significant. Still, their virtues became valuable nonetheless.  


                “I figured you’d say that,” Ser Marlon laughed. “You’re a good lad, Torrhen. Don’t let freedom go to your head. If you ever want to be a knight when you come of age, you know where to find me. Until then, get out of White Harbor and never come back, you cursed bastard.” His tone was knowing. Lord Wyman seemed to have caught on at the end, and he probably told Ser Marlon in a quick whisper. Perhaps the reason Torrhen felt sick wasn’t that he got someone murdered, but that he was caught. He heard Lady Stark say that several times to Lady Arya. Still, Ser Marlon’s words carried kindness in them, for he addressed him as the name bestowed by his grandmother. Torrhen’s deeds were known, but he wasn’t caught nor in trouble. The sense of wrestling through the thought of his murder-plagued.  


                “Thank you, Ser Marlon,” Torrhen would say. No more words needed to be exchanged. He was a squire and ward for the knight for over six years, and he knew Ser Marlon wasn’t a man of many words nor fond of goodbyes. Looking at the moment as he continued to ride underneath the grey northern sky, Torrhen was glad to be acknowledged by House Manderly. For better or worse, he was unwelcome to return to White Harbor.  
The journey passed, and Winterfell became a morning ride away. Today was the day all the dreams pointed to. For whatever reason, Torrhen had experienced no more understandable visions after this day. He would speak with Lord Stark and then leave early the following morning. Trodding through winter town revealed the magnificent castle of Winterfell passed it. Each stone carried a story, crafted with a purpose by a mason. Arrows struck some, others stood stalwart against the northern weather, and some embraced by the northerners inside hiding against them amidst shadows. Peace came to Torrhen when he laid his eyes on the place he called home, and grief filled his heart knowing he’d leave tomorrow.  


                “Good morning, Torrhen,” the gate guard said. He was a plump man, full of muscle to the point he looked fat, but he had dangerous agility. His thick nose with a long downward arch was poked fun of by the Stark children in the past, and he nearly always managed to catch them.  
“

                Morning, Barthogan,” Torrhen returned.  


                “Lord Stark wishes to speak with you,” Barthogan reported. “Immediately, in his solar, he said.” Torrhen made his way through the courtyard, the grey clouds covering the sun above Jon and Robb training and sweating.  


                “Torrhen’s back!” Arya shouted for joy, appearing out of nowhere behind a wooden post. Watching the boys fight again. Jon and Robb both turned towards Torrhen, excitement on their faces. Onyx hurried over to her, as he enjoyed her affections.  
“

                Is it true that Ser Marlon killed a Wyvern, and that your sword is cursed?” Robb asked. “A raven came yesterday telling of White Harbor’s bloody feast.”  


                “You’re going to stay in Winterfell from now on, right?” Jon asked. “No more journeys back and forth between White Harbor and Winterfell?”  


                “No more journeys between White Harbor and Winterfell,” Torrhen lied. What he said was true, but pangs of guilt festered in his gut knowing he’d be gone come tomorrow. “And not to worry about my sword, it’s no more cursed than I am. I’ll tell you how we took down the Wyvern later.”  


                “‘We took down,’ Robb grinned. “You played a part.”  


                “A part or two,” Torrhen jested. “Forgive me though; I must meet with your Lord Father.”  


                “I know,” Robb said somberly. “He’s locked himself in his solar since the raven came. He’s barely come out. We’re worried about him.” The pain returned to Torrhen’s stomach. He felt sure of his decision for revenge, but Lord Stark’s honor haunted him.  


                With haste Torrhen stood before Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North, cousin to his father Brandon Sterling, and his mentor. Like all days, Lord Stark’s long face was stoic, unfeeling, at least on the surface. He always looked troubled, but full of kindness. Worried that a single sentence will destroy everything he holds dear, yet still willing to extend his hand because it was the noble action. Lord Stark’s honor wasn’t out of superior moral authority or self-righteousness; it was from love and the desire to do what is right. He was as cold as winter, but he provided the summer’s warmth, unlike anyone.  


                “You’ve summoned me, Lord Stark?” Torrhen asked.  


                “After all the years in my house you still don’t call me uncle,” Lord Stark sighed. “The deed is done?”  


                “Aye, my Lord,” Torrhen affirmed. Lord Stark nodded, but his eyes wavered in disappointment. Lord Stark knew of the plan, and he confirmed Duncan Ashwood’s death as just upon sharing a vision of all that happened.  


                “His sons had no part in your plan,” Lord Stark said. “They did not need to die.” The guilt stemmed from here. Torrhen, in truth, did not care that he killed Lord Duncan Ashwood or two of his sons. All of his children were guilty of evil acts. They deserved to die a crueler fate than allotted, but Torrhen was merciful. It was Lord Stark’s unwavering conviction that their guilt meant they needed to be judged fairly by the Lord of White Harbor, and the children should be offered a chance to redeem themselves of the monstrosity who is Duncan Ashwood. Lord Stark’s disappointment, not Torrhen’s revenge, is what ached his chest. “While Duncan deserved his fate, it was out of bloodlust.”  


                “Forgive me, Lord Stark,” Torrhen said. “I know you didn’t care for what I did, but still I stand by what’s offended you.”  


                “I am not the one who needs to forgive you,” Lord Stark said coldly. “You’re worried about the one who appears in your dreams, a monstrous king. Against my better judgment, I let you be. Not because I couldn’t stop you, for I don’t know if I could, but I wanted you to make a choice. You wield power to judge. Now that you’ve cast condemnation upon those you’ve known to be evil, how do you feel?”  


                “I feel that it was good for Westeros to be rid of Duncan Ashwood,” Torrhen determined. “But I feel like my decision was wrong because I know you disliked it, Lord Stark.”  


                “I do dislike it,” Lord Stark assured. “Talk of dreams being proof makes me uneasy, yet I cannot deny what you have shown me. Still, hiding what you did was wrong. You shouldn’t have to lie and deceive for justice to be done. Nonetheless, I understand that love drives us to lie. Some things are meant to stay hidden.” The pit in Torrhen’s stomach worsened. Lord Stark would not move against Torrhen because of Jon. For, while he loved Jon as a little brother and would never hurt him, he knew the truth, and he wished for Jon to see it. Prince Rhaegar didn’t care for what was lawful and took himself a second wife in secret before the entire world. Jon deserved to know, but if it were not a secret, would Lord Stark demand justice for house Ashwood?  


                “Must all deep secrets stay hidden?” Torrhen asked. “If I uttered my truth, would you utter yours as well?”  
“No, and we will not speak on this again,” Lord Stark commanded. His voice was stern and heavier than usual as he walked towards the lone window to pour out his solemn stares. The wind burst through, chilling the room as if fate wished to intervene.  


                “Please, Lord Stark,” Torrhen pleaded. “I’m worried what may come if Jon doesn’t know today.”  


                “We’ve had this conversation before,” Lord Stark said. “I will not tell him yet, and I will keep my promise to Lyannna.”  


                “He’s a dragon as much as he is a wolf,” Torrhen said frustrated. “He should know who his parents are.” Torrhen pinched the bridge of his nose, uncertain what words could be expressed to sway Lord Stark.  


                “I’m a dragon?” The voice tore through Torrhen’s soul. Jon was listening, if only for a moment. His face had fallen. Regret filled Torrhen’s spirit. It was not his right to let Jon know, as much as he wished to embrace the truth. Lord Stark turned towards his nephew who had fled before a response could be given. Jon must have felt despair. Some secrets must never be uttered. Amidst all his dreams, even of this day, he had never seen Lord Stark filled with such wrath nor a contemptuous stare.  


                “He wasn’t ready, Torrhen,” Lord Stark said furiously. He may never be ready, but Torrhen could not even mumble his response. Lord Stark moved in distress out of the solar to find Jon.  


                Leaving Winterfell may have never been Torrhen’s choice. He walked to his room, keeping himself within. The previous days had been eventful, but he felt unsure through it all. It was good for Duncan Ashwood to be killed, but his death was fueled selfishly. Jon deserved to know he was the son of Rhaegar, but it wasn’t his right to force the issue. Power doesn’t give the right to do whatever one pleases; it only provides a choice. The rest of the day Torrhen’s mind swirled into the night, Lord Stark’s gaze haunting every thought. He had the early makings of a monster. It was not justice against Lord Ashwood, although the realm calls it such against a cursed man. Revenge fueled by selfishness led to his carefully planned murder. His death by Ser Marlon was just, but the cause was dishonorable. Jon had the right to know his parents, but it was Torrhen’s status as a bastard which urged him to press the issue time after time. He ignored the thoughts again and again over his entire life, but part of him wished he knew who birthed him. No vision had ever come for who his father had a drunken mistake with nor how she died. He wanted the right thing, but his selfishness created a rift. Jon wasn’t the type to hold on to cruelties from others, but finding out your father has lied to you your entire life may change that. Torrhen hated himself; every action he did was out of self-interest, taking something good and twisting it to the monstrous shape he feared.  


                No one knocked on Torrhen’s door to alert him to supper. Before first light, Torrhen knew what he must do. He walked down to the stables and readied Steppes, alongside Onyx and Shadow. He needed to leave Winterfell; it’s no longer his home. He wasn’t a Stark.  


                Every sight of the courtyard carried a story in Torrhen’s heart. Memories of sparring with Jon, Robb, and even Theon, being taught by Ser Rodrik Cassel, having Lord Stark smile down in pride had his wards and sons, and Arya cheers them on. Onyx, Shadow, Griffin, and Lycan wrestled as pups, always fighting for dominance. In the great hall, they’d have meals and host guests. Amidst the godswood he prayed, feeling a peace which surpassed all understanding before the great weirwood of Winterfell. Within Lord Stark’s solar he confessed many dreams, and even unintentionally discovered with tremendous effort was capable of sharing his visions with others, yet Lord Stark supported him through it all. Was Lord Stark’s affection only because he knew about Jon?  


                It no longer mattered, for a different path was before Torrhen Snow. Haien. Ice, winter, death, and the power of magic was at the touch of his fingertips. He had studied the history of house Sterling over the years, and no text offered insight into his powers. Claims of greensight and skinchanging were prevalent until a couple centuries before Aegon’s conquest, but no explanation as to the origin of the powers nor why they were in abundance within him. Even if Lord Stark wished for Torrhen to stay, he no longer could. The monster, dreams of Torrhen ruling an oppressive barren wasteland of snow, scared him. He abused his power as naturally as he breathed, forcing all woman, wealth, and power to be his. Anywho denied what was his was pierced through with a sword of ice. Armies marched against him only to be cut down. Even dragons bowed before his might, listening to his whims. A terrible future, for he has lost the remnants of that which he loved, for he ruled from Winterfell. House Stark was in danger as long as he was in the North.  


                “Where are you going?” the voice of the curious she-wolf asked. Lady Arya had made her way down the courtyard while Torrhen reminisced. “Why are you leaving again?” Her soft words wrung his heart. Onyx must have woken her, for he often liked to stay in her room.  


                “I cannot stay here, Lady Arya,” Torrhen told her. He got off his horse and knelt to the girl. “A different path is laid out for me. I don’t know what it is, but I need to leave to understand it.”  


                “Is that so?” Lord Stark’s stoic voice punctured the nervous air. He stepped from the shadows of the courtyard as if he was waiting. He picked up Arya in his arms, too tired to resist her father. Hardly a moment turned before Arya struggled to stay awake. “Jon will have a hard time for a while, and although mad, he is happy to know the truth. I’m infuriated too, but I don’t want you to leave. As I told Jon earlier, you may not have my name, but you have my blood.” Torrhen felt a weight lift off his shoulders, but the burden was light. He was as anxious as the winter was cold, and his emotions may cloud his judgment, but he knew Lord Stark was no liar. For all the shit which had happened, Lord Stark still cared for him, and Torrhen still loved the Stark family. Since the Wyvern ate one of his wolves, he felt as if a dark presence controlled bits of his deeds. Hatred and fear commanded his actions. Lord Stark disparaged those thoughts. He was the Lord of the North, a descendant of the kings of winter. Even without magic, he had mastery over ice. “You are family, my cousin’s son.” Still, something outside of Winterfell called to him. His dreams called to him. At the moment when his dreams no longer told him what happens, their mystery was a higher calling than family, for it was his duty to discover, know, and master magic that he may keep those dear safe. Lord Stark’s words repeated and haunted him through the last day, and one more phrase came to mind.  


                “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Torrhen said. “I am not leaving the family, for nothing is more important, but I must understand, Lord Stark.”  


                “I know,” Lord Stark smiled with fatherly pride. “I will not stop you. You are young, but you have become a good man.” Torrhen felt no greater wound. Years of being called a bastard paled in comparison to the one man he admired speaking kind words they both knew not to be true. He was a murderer and demon, and he knew that now.  


                “I fear that I’m not a good man,” Torrhen brooded.  


                “That is why I think you’re a good man,” Lord Stark said. “Face the evil man with courage. When you fail, do not be afraid to face your failures. Try your hardest to be noble and honorable. Don’t be obsessed with what you could have done, but what you can do now.” Words of encouragement. Torrhen couldn’t help but feel these were Lord Stark’s last words to him.  


                “I’ll do my best, Lord Stark,” Torrhen said.  


                “Lest I forget, Jon wanted you to have this,” Lord Stark reached behind him and pulled an ornamental stone from his pocket, colored like the moon with waves of ice. “We walked in Winterfell’s crypts today. He found two stones on the coffin of a Stark King, and the other was crimson with black lines, similar this one.” Torrhen took it in his hand; it felt hard like steel, smooth like stone, and hollow. A precious gemstone or an decorative piece from a former king. He felt endeared to the rock.  


                “Thank you, Lord Stark,” Torrhen said. The once haunting gaze of Lord Stark had changed as if he knew all things which had and will come to past. He was waiting out here with a gift from Jon, and he already knew Torrhen would leave. Not greensight or dramatic visions, for Torrhen could tell it was a Father’s intuition. After being his ward for so long, the urgency of his actions was understood by Eddard Stark. His reactions regarding Torrhen were never because he loved Jon, but because he loved Torrhen, his cousin’s son, as his own blood. In a twisted way, Torrhen was thankful for all that transpired. He missed his father and mother, but if they hadn’t passed away, he never would have known Lord Stark or his children as he has.  


                “Promise me,” Arya willed haggardly, “You’ll come back to Winterfell.”  


                Torrhen didn’t wish to make such a promise, for he no longer knew what the world had planned. Still, Arya’s words echoed into his mind. A little sister’s pleas regardless of the consequences, barely able to open her eyes enough to understand what was being said. Her large grey eyes yearned like a pup’s, unable to comprehend beyond their heart’s pure desire. “I promise, Arya. I’ll come back to Winterfell eventually.”  


                “I’ll hold you to that promise,” Lord Stark said.  


                Torrhen nodded. “Goodbye, Arya.” Her eyes were completely shut, not hearing a word and sleeping peacefully in the arms of her father. For the first time in months, Torrhen felt clear headed. The past was now in the past. He’d live honorably, searching for the truth behind house Sterling and their words. Rebirth in Winter Dreams. At least he knew the time would come eventually. Winter is Coming. Mounting back on his horse, he made his way with Onyx and Shadow following. “Goodbye, Uncle Eddard.”

 

A/N: Thanks for reading through the first five chapters. So far, from other places, chapter four has been well-liked and chapter five has been disliked. If you feel similarly, let me know why. What do you expect from this story from here out? I like to hear your thoughts. Also, since Torrhen is the main character through the next plethora of chapters until the war of the five kings starts, I think it would be boring both reading and writing all from POV. I'm going to start having various POVs telling their own experiences with Torrhen as the story goes on. Therefore, I'm going to give a vague idea of what the next chapter or two covers, and you can let me know any POV you guys would be interested in reading. For example, next chapter Torrhen explores the north as he chases rumors of magic. Eventually, he heads south to Greywater Watch and House Reed. So if there was a character, prominent, minor, or OC, such as Howland Reed, you'd like me to explore, let me know.


	6. Daryn I, Hagen, & Val I

Daryn I  


 

                “Gather a force and investigate these bandits,” Father snorted, wine in hand, sloshing around excitedly, miraculously never spilling a drop onto the beautiful clothes, although his red beard bathed in it. “It’s a pressing matter now, and I charge you to take care of it. Will you?”  
Daryn nodded, “Yes, Father. Count it as a problem no longer.” Failure would not be allowed for the tall, young heir to house Hornwood. Spectacular events didn’t occur in the Hornwood lands. Tales of the wyvern south of the castle intrigued Daryn, nothing so terrible or exciting happened here. Days of happenstance consist of a good hunt, or his mother provoked into snide, albeit humorous, comments from his lustful father’s glances. Today, Daryn would choose his father’s best men and dive into adventure; armoured in thick leathers and armed with proper steel.  


                Gathering the men didn’t take long, nor did the ride — a distance north of their castle, past the first few quiet villages. The woods surrounding the path got thicker for a time, the scrapped makings of a road overgrown with fauna which consisted of trampled over dead branches more akin to an extensive game trail than a good road. Outside of occasional bandits in the North, who’ve given up lives trying to toil with hardened soil, there was hardly a threat except winter itself. Food was scarcer in the North, and animals attacked fearlessly when hungry. A skilled hunter knows the appropriate signs and distance for an animal. Never travel alone, nor provoke the gentle creatures known as deer or moose, as the bulls antlers can gouge a man through effortlessly when caution is tossed into the wind. As long as northerners travelled together, they were safe from beasts.  


                The smell of the dead hovered over the path as the horses came to a stop. Daryn was sickened. In the middle of the road was an empty wagon. Cracked into its side was one of the plenty corpses with a face marred by bite marks. The left arm had been torn off, and the sleeve had no marks for a cut unless it was done by the world’s dullest sword. The stomach was ripped open, guts feeding the bloody earth beneath him — all they had similar marks. A force which tore up their parts, ripped off others, and with hardly a clean cut or blunt force strike from the likes of a sword. Strangely, a few had their throats slashed.  


                “My Lord,” Barthogan, a tall, lanky soldier, requested, “What shall we do now?”  


                “Look for a trail,” Daryn commanded. “We’re killing these bandits today. They’ll be nothing compared to a trained warrior.” Examining the wagon, there were markings of precious goods. Areas where the dust never settled on a long journey. Wool, most likely, as the wagon smelt of sheep. A decent and ordinary trade for the merchants surrounding Hornwood and the Sheepshead Hills. The number of guards was uncommon for travelling merchants. Bandits can be an issue, but he’s never heard of wool merchants needing a dozen men before.  


                “My Lord, I think I found something,” Barthogan said. “A trail, as well as a note.” Daryn walked over, noticing a trail of feet befitting that of a bear or a giant. Taking the crumbled note in hand, it left a simple command. Bring my brother back alive, or don’t come back at all, signed by a man referring to himself as the Butcher. In the last two years, whenever a bandit group was attacked and the small chance a note was left, the one in command was always the Butcher. He never made himself known, nor could anyone find where he was. He was a shadow and a leader of bandits.  


                “It seems he won’t be getting his brother back,” Daryn jested. “Probably for the better he’s not with a man calling himself a Butcher.”  


                “Why would wool merchants work for a man whose calls himself a butcher?” Barthogan questioned. “They need sheep, and selling them for meat hurts their own profits.”  


                “They were bandits disguised as merchants,” Daryn explained. “Little wonder why we’ve scarcely heard of this man. But if these were bandits, why would bandits kill them?”  


                “A rival group, perhaps?” Barthogan suggested. “The Butcher also threatened them with failure. What if they failed at their task?”  


                “Bandits hardly roam these lands, and there’s never been inter-bandit conflict before,” Darryn elaborated. “The Butcher has never left a mess despite his name. Why start now?”  


                “Getting bolder,” Barthogan answered.  


                Daryn examined the footprints heading off into the surrounding woods. The weight the feet sunk into the ground to leave their mark prodded his imagination. Thick, long, and fatty feet capable of kicking a man’s limb off; a person whose more beast than man. “There’s only a single set of food prints.” Darryn realised. “And they head off into the forest. Others would have gone back on the path to return, especially if the Butcher sent them. Whoever did this returned somewhere nearby. We’ll follow the footprints as far as we can.”  


                The longer the Northmen followed the footprints, the higher the anticipation built in Daryn’s chest. None of their steps was heavy enough to leave clear marks in the dry dirt in their prey’s likeness. A giant, Daryn hoped. Songs would be sung for years of Daryn the Giantslayer.  


                Not before long, the men had arrived at a cave in the face of a mountain, descending lower into darkness. Torches were lit along the wall without much fuel left. Each step was taken with silence in mind, only Daryn and Barthogan stepped forward to scout the bandit den the warriors would take down. Upon reaching the end of the cave, there were nothing but chests. Supplies of wool, various coins, weapons, leathers, silks and other luxurious clothes, a few gemstones, and a multitude of trade goods sat neatly on the cave floor. A den with goods unguarded; their leader was a fool, giant or no. They’d be able to catch them by surprise and take all wealth back to his proud father. A year’s worth of raiding must have been kept in here, and that would make any soldier accomplished.  


                “With such success, this must be the Butcher’s hideout,” Barthogan wondered. “He’s the only one who has been at this long enough.” It didn’t make sense for the butcher to be in the middle of nowhere, with not a soul guarding his loot. A fool leaving his wealth unguarded was not intelligent enough to lead bandits in near-secrecy for two years. No songs would be sung for Daryn killing an idiot, only mocked such effort needed to be taken. Darryn the fool-killing fool they’ll call him.  


                “We’ll set up camp in here,” Darryn commanded. “We will ready an ambush, and take shifts for those awake and sleeping for some to be ready for combat. Scouts will be stationed outside to warn us when the bandits return. We’ll stay here until then and use their supplies. Another will ride back to Hornwood to let Father know of our coming.”  


                “Aye, my Lord,” Barthogan agreed.  


                Contentment and pride flowed in Daryn’s veins. He need not use supplies when he could simply borrow from the bandits. Their first night’s meals were luxurious for being in the middle of nowhere, with properly salted pork and finely cut game steaks kept cool in the bowels of the northern mountain. Happily devouring his meal, he sat watching the walls. Protrusions came from floor and ceiling, with slight curves all around the sides of the cavern, with enough places to hide behind every corner held opportunity to strike when they wearily returned from their current venture. Daryn heartily bit into the game, smiling with bits of fat hanging off his stubble.  


                Seven days passed with nothing to do, and the food began to dwindle. Daryn began sending his men farther out in scouting during the day, wishing for any event to pass, yet his prayer was not heeded. No more tracks nor signs were found of any bandits in the area as if they were cleaned through. He promised his father glory. If he had known how droll the waiting would be, his rider should have held off. Lord Hornwood would be impatient, drunk, and slightly disappointed because Daryn was overeager, wine spilling into his beard. If this took too long, his father may even grow upset. The wrath of the Lord of Hornwood was not easy to provoke, but once it comes forth, none can be shielded against it.  


                Late in the night, Daryn breathed anxiously. He hadn’t pulled at his rope since a day before he last left, and now he was in the company of men. He wished to lower his treasures and do whatever he pleased. He could feel the throbbing stimulation without thought or touch. Teffeny’s prowess was needed, and he’d have to visit her several times upon returning. Her breasts were like snow- white, soft, and yet firm in a handful. Those tits were all he could reason about as he shut his eyes. A moment or hours, Darryn could not tell which had passed. The first thought on his mind was Teffeny until he was lifted, tied, and thrown against the cave walls.  


                In the centre of the cave stood a beast, words would not to describe, surrounded by all of his men either dead or tied up like him. Its head was like a direwolf, and it was covered in thick, black hair. The snout was short and soft, with a dark brown moustache atop the black fur. With great hands, more massive than Daryn’s head and nails longer than Darryn’s fingers it slashed the throats of his men. The feet seemed of average size, but with toes longer twice as long as the foot, with a curved ankle joint.  


                “Finally, awake?” It snarled. “You bastards come in here and appropriate my stuff I killed bandits for. Well, you’re all going to die.” It lifted up Barthogan, one of the best soldiers under his father and a veteran from Robert’s Rebellion, and with blunt tenacity, it punched a hole through the stomach and ripped out every organ.  


                “I’m Daryn Hornwood,” Daryn exclaimed. “Do not harm any more men or me, and my father will give you a hefty ransom.” He wrestled with trying to free himself of the bindings to find them being tighter any rope he’s felt before, hands snugly behind his back against a stalagmite. He pushed back and forth quietly as the creature spoke.  


                “I could fucking care less if you’re a noble, heir, lord, or king of the seven kingdoms,” the beast spoke, it’s eyes tense and set on Daryn. “The noble butcher turned me into this, and when I free myself, I go about killing bandits and taking their stuff for my own. When I come back home, I see more lords taking my stuff. You’re not better than bandits, doing whatever you want on me. I am going to kill you, too, be patient.” It tossed Barthogan to the ground, picked up another soldier, Kevan, and did the same to him. Daryn wrestled harder to hurry the process to no avail. No progress was made.  


                “What the hell are you?” A voice asked. Stepping from the shadow into the faint torchlight was an enormous, pale man with blue eyes that pierced into the darkness. “No wonder Lord Hornwood hasn’t heard back. There were no bandits, as I thought.”  


                “You’re the one who's been hunting me,” the beast growled. “One of the Butcher’s men. I will kill you too.” He lunged forward, but the stranger ducked and manoeuvred around the monster with grace.  


                Brandishing a greatsword, “I don’t know a Butcher, but I am hunting you.” He struck forward and cut the beast’s chest open. “A man who could change into the skin of a wolf was sighted south of the Dreadfort, and is reported to have killed an innocent girl.” A new tale and rumour Daryn hadn’t heard, and a terrible one. Skinchangers were a common myth in the North, a story as old as time to tell around the fire or over drinks, yet he had never imagined he would see one before his very eyes. If he survived, this battle may just become a tale too. He rustled his binds against the stone behind him as hard as he could.  


                “I did not kill her,” the beast roared wrathfully. As if by magic, the wounds healed, pulling the skin back together and stopped the bleeding. The gods cursed this beast.  


                Two shadows emerged from the corner before this room. Two more beasts, Daryn feared. Before he could warn the stranger, they lept passed him and bit into the legs of the monster. Using the opportunity, the man swung his greatsword swiftly down the creature’s chest and plunged it into its heart.  


                The beast fell to the ground, frantically rolling on his back. “You can’t kill me,” it howled. “They Butcher tried and failed.” With a great cry, it pulled the sword of its chest and tossed it to the side, nearly hitting Daryn. “You have no weapon now.” As the two wolves once again tried to bite at its heels, he punched one furiously on the snout and kicked the other into the stomach. “I cannot die, and now, you’re dead.”  


                “Anyone can die,” the stranger promised. “Some just have a trick to it.” The monster lunged at him.  


                Time slowed. Daryn exhaled. Tremendous, tenacious force exerted his wrists onto the rock behind him. He was free, by the grace of the old gods. The greatsword of the stranger was heavy, with fine engravings, a died blue handle, and a silver crossguard, but it mattered not. For saving his life, the stranger would be repaid in full. With two hands, he brought the blade back and ran towards the monster. The monster wailed in the likeness he’d never heard a creature cry before, loud enough to shake the cave, scarily cool the air, and pierce into their ears with unimaginable despair and wrath. “Righteous in Wrath,” Daryn proclaimed, sticking his sword into the back of the beast’s skull.  


                It fell over, and then it began to twitch. The stranger pulled the sword out from the monster, pulling tufts of fur and blood with it. The twitching increased. “Alive,” the beast groaned. The whisper of a sword hit the air, slashing down onto the monster’s neck.  


                “I’m Torrhen Snow, my lord,” the stranger greeted, the cursed boy of White Harbor. Daryn gawked at his own hands, which wielded the cursed blade from White Harbor. He felt fine, albeit tired, but Torrhen walked to the supplies to find a cloth, with the monster’s head in hand and cleaned his blade. Its body lay limp on the floor. “Your father sent me to find you. You look just like him.” Pride swelled in Daryn’s chest. “He was worried without hearing word since you left.”  
“Since I left?” Daryn exclaimed. “I sent word on the first day.”  


                “He received no message,” Torrhen explained. “I’ve been hunting the Skinchanger for a few days until I came to castle Hornwood where I met with your worried father. Although, I did come across a dead rider and its horse on the way here. Several scouts are dead outside too.” Daryn knew not what to think. A creature with the strength of a monster but the intelligence of a man, who stalked and killed his men until he caught the group of them off guard. He’d have made an excellent warrior. “Let’s return quickly.”  


                With Torrhen, his wolves, and the few remaining survivors, they spent the night packing and headed back to castle Hornwood. On the ride back, Torrhen spoke of his firsthand account of the Wyvern north of White Harbor. The tales were dangerous and filled with events beyond Daryn’s imagination, yet he felt called to adventure all the same. He yearned for a day to face his own Wyvern and overtake it, not be caught off guard and outwitted by a beast.  


                Arriving at Castle Hornwood, Daryn’s Lord Father celebrated. A small feast was thrown, and all the men regaled the tale from their own views. A theme of the young heir bravely breaking free and righteously shouting were engrained in the minds of his men. A quiet song was sung, but a song nonetheless.

Hagen  


 

                “His sword was the knife, the men were the butter, and the ground was the bread,” Gorne promised, his mud-coloured eyes firm like a mountain. He was one of the cleverest men on Skagos, with a long, grey, and curly beard grown to his chest. “We think he may be a friend of the self-proclaimed Warg-king of Skagos, who was trying to sail away.” Maldrec, Hagen remembered. The most dangerous peasant on Skagos with aspirations to nearly matching his ability, a man who can commands a small force of wolves, bears, birds, and other creatures. He rules over a few men, the forest, and kills all who comes near without swearing fealty. He was a bastard. “My lord? What should we do with him?”  


                “You captured him?” Hagen asked.  


                “Not before he cut down twenty men and voluntarily surrendered,” Gorne said. A strong warrior makes a more excellent gift to the Weirwood. Blood magic was the only tool Hagen had, which could finally rid Skagos of Maldrec. “Shall we sacrifice him to the gods? He would make for quite an offering.”  


                “You stole my own thought,” Hagen jested. “We’ll sacrifice him, and I will fight Maldrec.”  
“My lord,” Gorne worried, “He’s killed every fighter we’ve sent. Perhaps the sacrifice should be made to increase another’s power.”  


                “Today, it will be,” Hagen promised. “I’m the strongest Skinchanger on Skagos. Only I can fight him. Besides, routinely killing my men and not ending this conflict is taking too long. I’d rather die and be done with it.” Hagen walked out of his hall. Journeying down the steps of his magnificent castle, leading to the grand weirwood and village at its footstool, he admired each stone. “Bring the prisoner here. Ready the weirwood for a sacrifice.” The prisoner was tall, with his snow-coloured skin and blue wolf eyes. He didn’t speak nor resist a single command.  


                The priests of the gods came forth to prepare the sacrifice. First, they readied the block to have the prisoner’s head cut off atop a high table. Knives to cut off his limbs and carve out his organs to shove them on the branches of the heart tree. An empty trough rested beneath the table, with holes above to let the blood flow freely, to be poured at the base of the tree, feeding it with the life of another. A concoction was prepared, with purple moss, blackberries, and wormwood. A bowl and utensils crafted from weirwood would be used to serve the meat after it was wrought holy, to keep the gods' power connected from tree to stomach. Prayer and execution were the last needs.  


                “Human sacrifice,” the prisoner remarked. “To grow stronger? Magic related to blood?” His voice was deep and curious yet insufferable. Hagen smacked the prisoner with the back of his fist, blood dripping on his knuckles. “What does this ceremony accomplish?” Hagen went to hit him again, but he stopped.  


                “Your master didn’t teach you?” Hagen wondered. “He’s powerful yet can’t lead beyond himself.” The prisoner lifted his brow, curious. “We sacrifice to the gods. They will fill the meat with power, and whoever eats of it will grow stronger than ever before. I am going to eat you to slay Maldrec.”  


                “I’ll kill Maldrec for you,” the prisoner said. “If you free me.”  


                “You murdered my men.”  


                “Your men ate my horse after I crashed ashore, and then wanted to eat my wolves.”  


                “You’re a mainlander?” Hagen laughed. “What can you do?”  


                “The North thinks I’m cursed,” the prisoner said. “And I am a warg. No one cares if I die, and I’m strong than you are.”  


                “Arrogant.”  


                “I’m not arrogant,” the prisoner said. “I am stronger than you.” Hagen raised his fist, but felt dizzy, with bricks fall atop his head, cracking open every piece of bone which forms his skull. Every piece of flesh was being ripped apart. Shooting pains radiated from his chest down to his arms and then legs. The world faded black.  
Opening his eyes, Hagen was surrounded by knee-high snow. Before he was the prisoner resting against the most giant weirwood tree he’s ever seen. “What magic did you cast?”  


                “Skinchanging,” the prisoner explained. “I am in control of your body.” Hagen experienced the worse hangover of his life.  


                “How?” Hagen asked. “Is Maldrec that strong, that skilled of a teacher?”  


                “If he could do what I can, he wouldn’t still be your enemy.”  


                “Then what are you doing right now, as the Lord of house Magnar?”  


                “Telling your men to free me of my bindings,” the prisoner said. “And I’m commanding the prisoner, named Torrhen Snow, to fight Maldrec to the death. If he wins, he has earned his freedom and will be welcome back to Skagos at any time.”  


                “He has an army of beasts at his side,” Hagen laughed. “You will never win.”  
“

                You may be surprised, Lord Magnar,” Torrhen said. “Anyone can die.” This boy was going to die. “But now, you need your rest.”  


                Torrhen vanished. Snow fell, and an icy tempest followed. Every moment was torturous. During winter, Skagos never felt so cold. He lived through far worse storms, and yet the air was colder. In the harshest blizzard and thickest powders warmth was possible. Fucking was always the best. His wife’s body all around him, moving against each other with instincts of an animal, produced the most robust heat. Running or fighting helped as well or pressing one’s self against furs. Even clapping his own hands and rubbing them together created a slight spark of hope. Now, at this moment, no amount of movement or rubbing brought him any warmth, but neither did the cold take him.  


                Hagen walked as far as he could into the endless snow. On occasion, he would look back. The weirwood never grew smaller as the distance changed, forever being to the tree. Nothing ever changed. The minutes turned into hours, and the hours turned into losing his sense of time altogether. The days made no sense. Night never fell, nor did the sun pierce through the clouds above. The storm never stopped. He never grew warm nor tired. Not a single other person walked near him as if he could see well enough in the blizzard to spot someone. He felt alone and longed for anyone to be here.  


                The blizzard stopped. The earth cracked beneath his feet, revealing ice as the ground itself, with snow falling into an eternal abyss. Hagen looked back to the weirwood, and a new figure stood there. Its skin was the colour of bones, with crystal eyes. Thick, snow-coloured hair went down to its neck. Covering him was armour made of ice, with a thin ice sword on its back. Its stare was death.  


                “Who are you?” Hagen asked. It cracked opened its mouth and moved its blue lips. Crackling came out; the ice continued to break apart. The world shook. It drew its sword and sliced forward, cutting through the air, separating the world in two. The earth tilted to each side. Right side up ceased to exist. Hagen was pulled into the abyss.  


                Hagen opened his eyes. The stone ceiling comforted. A mighty castle can withstand a blizzard. He was content.  


                “My Lord!” Gorne shouted. “Forgive me, Lord Magnar, but Torrhen has returned. He’s brought Maldrec’s head.” Hagen shot up from the bed and ran towards the main hall. Sitting at a table eating salted pork was the Skinchanger.  


                Hagen breathed, ready to yell and have the man imprisoned for subjecting him to such winter, but it was fruitless. If he spoke one command, the Skinchanger could take over once more and undo it. He was lord of this castle, but powerless before this man.  


                “I killed Maldrec, my lord,” Torrhen said with mainlander niceties, but he was fools gold. An evil man. “He was tougher than I thought, and I’m glad the world is rid of him, but there is something you ought to know.”  


                “What is it?” Hagen exasperated. Torrhen hesitated.  


                “He didn’t wish either of you to die,” Torrhen explained. “He never planned on killing you, as you were his half-brother, or so he claimed his greensight promised. Even if you don’t believe this, he left plans behind he has set in motion to conquer Skagos. You can live out his ambition.” Hagen breathed in. “I do not will any treason against you. I only wish to be here without conflict.” If Hagen didn’t accept, he would die. For the first time, in flesh and blood, Hagen felt afraid. Torrhen could not be killed. “I’ve come to learn magic, my lord. I’ve been told Skagos had powerful Skinchangers and greenseers. I submit myself to your authority, and I pray my actions to indicate I intend you no harm.” Hagen exhaled.  


                “So be it,” Hagen spoke. “Let’s drink and talk.” Servants brought out brown ales. Warriors and kin sat in the main hall around the high table, intently listening to the spellcaster’s stories. The slaying of Maldrec, a wolf-man, and a dragon without flame were fascinating tales, and the night went on with drinks. Hagen lifted his glass to lips as many times as he could count, until the fear of the Skinchanger evaporated. He was lord of this castle, and nothing will stop that.  


                Torrhen walked over to Hagen, grabbed two ales, and plopped himself down. “How may I help you, Lord Magnar?”  


                “Fight me for my castle,” Hagen demanded. “Kill me and be done with it.”  


                “I don’t want to lead,” Torrhen rustled. “I’m trying to do anything but rule.” Hagen laughed now. With such power, people will naturally look to him to lead, regardless of whether he’s good at it.  


                Torrhen frowned.  


                “Humor will come in time,” Hagen promised.

Val I  


 

                Val bit her lip, longing toward the tent of Jarl. She could steal him now. His skin was darker than most wildlings, kissed by the sun. Not particularly strong nor tall, yet he held qualities unlike most. Agility like a shadowcat and stamina like a wolf, natural talent of which only he was capable. Grab a knife, she told herself, and pin him down to ride him and make him hers. Resistance would be given because he’s part of the free folk, but he won’t resist for long.  


                In the early morning, two shadows danced closer to the camp. One of them, Threk she recognised, was shouting. “Get Mance! I have a warg and greenseer with me.” A young fool, full of energy but lacked a mind to do something with it. Mance wouldn’t care about single warg brought by a boy who's as foolish as his nose was crooked, even if the camp gawked and whispered. The supposed warg stood tall and lean, the opposite of Jarl in every way, with the palest skin she’d ever seen and eyes bluer than the sea. Hardly any stubble splattered on his face. Behind them followed two wolves, one black as night with a snow underbelly and the other black peppered with grey and brown. Val followed them into Mance’s tent, with an instrument in hand, swinging sweet nothings before being interrupted. Mance berated with his stare, demanding to know what was so important. 

                He was busy, and Dalla was under furs and bearskin. “I’ve brought you a warg. A greenseer, Mance,” Threk tried to explain.  


                “And?” Mance asked. “What does this Skinchanger have to do with me?”  


                “He- he’s not one of us, Mance,” Threk continued. “He’s a southerner. A warg blessed by the old gods with two wolves, and he may not appear special, but he is.” His face contorted with fear.  


                “What?” Val wondered. “Do you love him? Is that why you demanded to see Mance?” Threk looked at the warg but said nothing more.  


                “Forgive him, Mance Rayder,” the warg asked. “I told him my wolves would eat him alive otherwise. I’m Torrhen Snow, a bastard from south of the wall.”  


                “You sound like a bastard,” Val prodded.  


                “I am a bastard,” the Skinchanger affirmed. “May I have a moment of your time? Jeor Mormont said money was useless to you, so I gave them money for extra supplies. New skins, a few swords, and some wineskins.”  


                “And where are these skins, swords, and wineskins?” Mance smiled curiously.  


                “Hidden, but nearby,” Torrhen assured. “I’ll tell you if you can help me.”  


                “Why can’t I just kill you, and we find your supplies?”  


                “If you killed me,” Torrhen compromised, “Then you’ll find my supplies eventually, but it will take you hours. Maybe days.”  


                “What can we help you with?” Mance gently placed his instrument beside Dalla.  


                “I’m looking for a weirwood. The largest weirwood any wildling has ever seen. I’ve dreamt of it North of the wall.” A man with greensight, the dreams few understand and fewer are capable of controlling, sought the greatest source of the old gods magic possible. “I’ve dreamt of going there. I know not what I’ll find.” A boring desire for a droll person. His mouth moved, but only nonsense came out.  


                “The haunted forest has many weirwood groves,” Mance determined. “Spend enough time there, and you’ll surely find the largest.”  


                “If that is all you can give me, I’d as soon as listened to Lord Commander Mormont,” Torrhen riffed. Val gripped her knife, as did Mance. Someone was watching Val, with the faint growl walking with was the snow-bellied wolf, yet eyed Mance. Val turned, and in her blindspot was the other wolf, as quiet as a shadow. This wolf was leaner and longer, with thinner paws and dangerously watchful gaze. A she-wolf who exerted control over Val, and who Val would have to slay first. Damn whoever let them in.  


                “I know of a weirwood,” Val lied. “In the haunted forest, within the grove, there is a weirwood taller than all the others. It never seemed special, and it’s always stood out from the rest.”  


                “Excellent!” the Skinchanger rejoiced. He smiled, and his wolves sat with wagging tales, but the danger didn’t pass.  


                “I trust you’ll guide this man, Val?” Mance asked.  


                “Of course,” Val smiled, full of mischief in heart.  


                “The supplies are a bit beyond your camp,” the Skinchanger explained. “They’re leaning against the closest tree to the south-east.” Val blinked. He lied, and now so did she. She’d kill the man, take the southerner’s remaining stuff, and be back by the next day.  


                Val readied and marched. The Skinchanger followed behind her, and his wolves straddled the sides between them. Gashing his throat wouldn’t work with their animalistic instincts. The bigger one is friendly, endearing even, but the she-wolf observed her with eyes like the moon, changing with the shadow yet always constant and so pale the blue was nearly white. “What’s her name?” Val inquired.  


                “Shadow,” the Skinchanger said.  


                “O’ course it is,” Val spat out. “So tell me, how did you tame them?” Her voice mocked. He wasn’t special. He’d die soon enough. If he was like other skinchangers and the pain was excruciating, the wolves would fall too, and she’d escape.  


                “I didn’t,” the Skinchanger’s pride brimmed in his voice. She did not even turn to look at him. “I raised them as pups, and I’m connected to them, but they retain their freedom. They follow me because I’m their father.” His steps continued with a renewed jovial beat. With nothing left to say, Val waited for the opportunity.  
At night, they found a small cave to camp in. Val laid deerskins to sleep on, with additional furs to cover herself. The Skinchanger opened his pack to give his wolves food they devoured but brought nothing to rest on nor warm himself. Neither did he gather kindling to start a fire on the trek. He had nothing but the skins and leathers on his back.  


                “Are you going to start a fire?” Val mused. Maybe he will kill himself. “How are you going to stay warm?”  


                “What do you mean?” the Skinchanger asked. “It’s not cold out.” Fucking men, always trying to look tough, or a southern fool who does not know better. Even one of the free folk would freeze to death in his clothes without a fire or extra skins. He will kill himself.  


                “If you ask really nicely,” Val lied, “I’ll let you in my bed to stay warm.” He would fuck her, or at least try to.  


                “No, thank you,” the Skinchanger assured her with southern niceties, according to Mance. They’ll pretend to be as polite as possible to win over the woman, but he didn’t understand the Free Folk. He’d have to steal her, and if he didn’t, she’d cut his throat. “You need not share anything. I don’t expect wildlings to offer such kindness.” Val eyed him. His vacant expression was severe and uncaring.  


                “I’ll fuck you to help you stay warm,” Val blurted out. She manoeuvred her knife beneath the furs while undressing. The southerner blushed, and she forced her smile to encourage advances. Horny and embarrassed, she mused, like some southerner unwilling to express his desires. She loathed him.  
“Forgive me, Lady Val,” the Skinchanger offered. “I didn’t grasp what you meant. I’m not cold, and you don’t need to give yourself to me.” Val ground her teeth and her blood boiled. The air felt as cold as she did kind. “And I don’t wish to sleep with you,” the Skinchanger decided. “As a lad, my father unknowingly taught me to only sleep with the woman you marry. Mother told me to marry for love. So I will.”  


                “And what are they doing now that you’re North of the Wall?” Val mocked, fixing her furs. “Are they proud their baby boy is going to die by the cold?” The Skinchanger’s face stiffened, and his crystal eyes stared directly into her.  


                “They were killed by the cold,” the Skinchanger said. “A monster of ice. I wish to learn more about that monster.”  


                Vengeance. Living for blood was something Val was familiar with. The first men who ever tried to steal her lost his cock. But her and Dalla’s parents, it had been so long since she thought of them. They died before Val reached her eighth year at the hand of White Walkers, the foul others always on the free folk’s heel who terrorise in the Haunted Forest. Perhaps she wouldn’t kill him tonight. The cold will take him. Val covered herself beneath her skins. As her mind wandered, they only went back to her parents. Her mother’s face was soft and round, like Dalla’s, with eyes greener than any forest, short blonde hair, and her voice was sweeter than honey. No mercy, her mother whispered. Drifting to her father, he was a man of stocky build, with long red hair and a mighty beard, touched by the flame. His eyes were fierce with the colour of an icy river. Protect yourself, her father commanded. They were probably apart of the army of the dead, and his parents suffered the same fate. She wondered how a White Walker made it south of the wall, but she didn’t care. The knife stuck to her hand, yearning to be used on an Other, as she closed her eyes. Pointless it was against a being who cannot be killed.  


                Val awoke. The Skinchanger stretched beneath the cloudy morning sky, ill-covered as the night before. A loathsome being who cannot grow cold. The blood of the first men must run stronger in him than any free folk she’s met, but he’ll die of the cold eventually. Proudly, he offered her food, but she denied him the pleasure. Thankfully to fool him, she packed nearly a full journey’s worth of supplies. After a quick bite, Val marched. She spoke very little.  


                On the second night, the Skinchanger fell asleep and his wolves with him. Val seized her blade for the opportunity to slash his throat. As she held it against his neck, pity came over her. He was a southerner, whose ma and da were murdered the same as hers. Instead of doing nothing, he risked what he had to learn more because he dreamt it. Naïvely he lived without purpose besides vengeance. She pulled her knife away and let the Skinchanger live.  


                “Thank you, lady Val,” the Skinchanger spoke. His eyes were open, cold and callous as the winter, but she saw kindness and sincerity too. Val could not muster any words to say, and so she forced herself to sleep.  


                On the third day, Val woke to the sound of whinnies and stomps, along with a hawk mightily screeching. Two horses, one black and one brown, stood before her. And she felt warm for the first time since she left. To her left, as she opened her eyes, was the larger wolf Onyx. He kissed her face. “Don’t, you mutt,” Val giggled, but the wolf knew better. He snuggled against her furiously. “I have to get up.” Damn wolf gets zealously friendly the second she decided not to kill the Skinchanger.  


                “He likes you,” the Skinchanger snickered. “He’s liked your scent since he met you, but I forbade him from lowering his guard until we knew you wouldn’t kill us.”  


                “No point in killing a man who gets himself killed,” Val argued. “You’ve found us horses though? Good, it’ll take less time to get there.” She hopped on the horse and perplexed herself with the situation. It’ll take less time to get to somewhere she doesn’t know, and he might kill her for that.  


                “The cold will not take me,” the Skinchanger asserted. “Nor will it take you.” It took another couple days to reach the haunted forest and two more atop them to reach the weirwood grove entrenched in deep snow. She could hardly remember how to get there and now was the real trouble. The weirwood grove spans for miles both ways. Certainly, there would be a weirwood grander than all others, but it would be impossible to find. “I’ll help search,” the Skinchanger said. Rustling burst from all the trees. Birds of all kinds soared into the sky.  


                “How many can you warg into?” Val asked. “That’s a fucking lot o’ birds.”  


                “It depends on the will of the creature,” the Skinchanger reasoned. “Small birds have weaker wills and are effortless to control. Large birds, like Hawks or Falcons, are fierce predators and have stronger wills. Creatures with more stubbornness, like wolves, horses, or bears, take some effort. Humans are incredibly difficult, and the more disciplined, the stronger the mental will. I’m incapable of warging anything more than one person at a time, including the smallest of animals.”  


                Val was taken aback. “You’ve warged into other people?” She felt sick in her stomach. How did she know he wasn’t controlling her now to feel nicer?  


                “A few times,” he admitted. “The first time was to kill someone who plotted my parents' death. I took control of the man and murdered two of his own sons while confessing to his crimes.” Vengeance controls him. “After that, I swore myself never to do it again. Yet, when it’s life or death, warging into someone for a split moment can be the difference. I can delay the swing of a sword, the movement of feet, the raising of a shield, and with enough effort, force them completely still. It’s a terrible power, and I’ve sworn not to use, it but I still do. Not even a moon ago, I controlled a Lord who sought to sacrifice me to a weirwood tree. I still feel him, even if slightly. I hate it.”  


                “Well, don’t go around telling people that,” Val said. “People won’t trust you. They’ll probably try to kill you. I would.”  


                “I know,” the Skinchanger grieved. He remained silent after, and Val held little desire to prod him for further information. Through the birds, by the end of the day, the warg guided them to a weirwood tree, unlike any other. It was enormous, twice the height of any tree in the forest. On its trunk was a crying face, full of despair. It perched atop a small hill with a cave at its base leading into the underground. Beautiful, strange, and mighty was this weirwood, full of magic and strength. The northern snows obscured the centre of the forest from any scout.  


                While the Skinchanger walked the hill, Val ventured beneath the earth. The cave was warmer than most, and not much bigger than a few persons wide. Enormous milk-coloured roots dug deep. The sound of rushing water caught her ear. A spring to warm up or a river to clean herself. The water grew louder underfoot, and the twists and turns of the cave went on forever. Finally, she found a small waterfall from a spring behind the wall with a puddle beneath it. She undressed swiftly, letting the warm spring rain on her body like a lover’s kisses. Her hair felt heavy and clean, her face was refreshed, and every inch of her skin loved the gentle waterfall. She never wished to leave and explore the harshness of winter again. The yearnings of spring burst in her mind. Grass, trees, no snow, and bright sunlight every day beyond the wall. Crops and meat were aplenty, with Jarl at her side, and the Free Folk being led by Mance. A dream, she realised, and nothing more. The waterfall kissed her, but she cannot stay like this forever. She wrapped herself in her furs and headed back to the entrance.  


                Val lost her path. Each twist and turn was a discovery she couldn’t remember seeing before. Mumblings echoed to her. Follow the voice until the Skinchanger stood in front of a pack of bones twisted in the roots. Against the wall are the corpses of grey and green-skinned folks, like a large child. Their flesh was mostly gone, exposing their insides. Uneaten, untouched save big stab wounds the size of a fist.  


                The Skinchanger reached down between the roots and bone and yanked free a sword. It’s pommel and cross guard were a golden flame, and the blade was made of smoke with an edge sharper than any steel she’d seen. On the blade were flames waved into runes she could not understand. “Valyrian steel,” the Skinchanger explained. “I’ve gotten what I’ve come for. There is nothing else here I need.”  


                “Like that, you’re done?” Val questioned. “It’s not even been two hours, and you’re ready to leave?”  


                “Yes,” the Skinchanger sigh. “The tree held nothing special. It offered nothing I didn’t know but the fate of these. A turncloak, children of the forest, and a nice sword.”  


                “Sounds like you lost on your adventure,” Val jested. “You gave us several nice swords, and you got one.”  


                “That’s not the issue,” the Skinchanger explained. “Down south, this sword can probably buy me a castle.” Southern nonsense again, for a sword to be worth a castle shows how foolish men were. A weapon against men is nothing compared to a shield against the winter. “I was hoping to find something on magic here. Ice magic. The likes of which aren’t recorded in history outside of the scarcely mentioned Others.”  


                Val laughed. “You want magic? You’re already the strongest Skinchanger I’ve ever heard of. If you can get others to like and are have decent with a sword, you could probably become King Beyond the Wall.”  


                “I don’t need power,” the Skinchanger admitted angrily. “I need understanding! I need control!” He took the blade, and it’s half-broken sheath to his side. “I trust you can make it back on your own? I’ll leave you a horse. I’m leaving for Castle Black before dawn.” Val nodded. He would have made a decent member of the Free Folk as a Skinchanger and one unaffected by the cold, but he was too kind and trusting. They’d kill him out of fear when he was asleep, or outnumber him a hundred-to-one. But he’d never be free, for he was a slave to magic. Val slept once more, the warmest and cleanest she had been in years, with a crooked smile on her face.  


                Val shivered, awaking from the rough kisses of Onyx. At her feet was the other, watching her. The wolves are still here. She stood to her feet, and both wolves led her to the exit, watching outside what she could not see. The sun was rising, and an unconceivable blizzard swirled outside. The falling changed sizes between a nail and a fist, crashing into each other from every direction. Back and forth, the hail went, each course trying to overcome the other. Val took a step into the storm. The Skinchanger was unseen.  


                “GET BACK IN THE CAVE,” the Skinchanger demanded. “YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DON’T.” She stepped back. He was in the centre of the blizzard. He had to be using a weirwood to protect himself somehow.  


                Val heard the ice cracking. The sound of a frozen lake splitting apart by the sun, snow being stepped on, and ice slamming against ice in repeated patterns echoed into the cave as she looked on. A voice, she realised. An Other. Terror stretched over her. They never acted in the day. Val did the only thing she could do, pray to the old gods for mercy. Prayer for them to not come back as monsters to be used to kill their loved ones. The Other grew angry. The cracking got louder. The hailstones came to the size of a man’s head.  


                The Skinchanger screamed in pain. Shouts of desperation punctured through the storm. “HAIEN,” he yelled with all his might, the word cracking on ice like the Others. “HAIEN,” he repeated. “HAIEN. HAIEN. HAIEN! HAIEN! HAIEN!” With a shout that shook the world, the storm froze. Hail had stuck to the air. An Other stood, monstrous and darkly beautiful. It had a deceitful godliness, with skin whiter than the Skinchanger, glowing crystal eyes, and a blade of thick blue eyes. The Skinchanger stood his opposite, bloody and bruised, with a cut in his stomach. His own Other-like crystal eyes shone like the moon, and in his right hand, he wielded the dark blade.  


                Out of thin air, a tree trunk of ice appeared, and with an invisible hand, the Skinchanger threw it at the Other, who flew back. Spears made of ice crystalised from nothing at the wave of the Other’s hand, launching them at the Skinchanger. The spears missed, but one pierced him in his wound, and he fell to his knees. The Other walked triumphantly, blade in hand. Its face was furious, as it probably never had to fight so hard. The sound of its arrogant voice broke against the still air, and it laughed. It mocked the Skinchanger, scolded him with a hiss. The monster swung his sword down. With a gesture of the Warg’s left hand, the sword disappeared into thin air, and with a stroke of might and luck, the valyrian sword struck the Other in its side. The Other shattered like glass, and the world turned upside down.  


                The Skinchanger fell, and Val rushed to his side. “I’ll stop the bleeding,” she mumbled. “You can’t die before explain how you did that.” He smiled. Blood coughed up from his mouth. As his consciousness faded, the crystal eyes grew brighter with a mind of their own. The blood froze, and the body stiffened. His heart stopped, but the magic persisted. He was dead, but the wolves made a commotion. Energy surged through them, jumping into the air like excited pups. They howled and howled at Val, not with sadness or anger, but with urgency. The Skinchanger is alive. None of the Free Folk she knew could treat this. Castle Black was a day’s ride away. She knew the risk but before her was a Sorcerer — a man who slew an Other.  


                Val hopped on the black horse whose eyes had become crystal. The Sorcerer was still alive. He changed skins, and she rode atop him, she chuckled to herself. “I won’t let you die,” Val promised.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I know few people like to read OCs, but I very much wanted to write an ASoIaF story with a wizard in it. As you can see, there's not much magic yet as it's told from the boy's dad's perspective. If you expected something bigger, the next chapter will be better. If you're expecting a monstrous event to be revealed which changes the nature of magic, it'll be hinted throughout but not stated obviously until much later. Nonetheless, it could be figured out fairly easily if that's a big hang-up of yours.
> 
> As a quick, story-long note: I don't plan on writing any rape/non-consent or underage sex scenes. Those are marked because they are inherently relevant to the world of ASoIaF with 13-14-year-old girls potentially marrying fully grown men. That said, there are still horrible people who do horrible things, I do acknowledge it. I don't get into depths.


End file.
